Blood Like Chocolate
by Deklava
Summary: After vampires murder Sarah in front of him, ex-army doctor John Watson no longer has a life: he has a mission. He comes to London to destroy the vampire population, never expecting to fall in love with one.
1. Chapter 1

For John, the hunt began after they killed Sarah.

During his waking hours he managed to steer his thoughts away from the tragedy, but in his Valium-induced dreams, it always came back, terrible and vivid.

They were leaving Cineworld on Renfrew Street in Glasgow after seeing the late-night showing of _Chernobyl Diaries_. Sarah didn't like scary or violent movies; she'd only agreed to go because John had insisted and she'd picked the last film. As they left the warmth and brilliance of the theatre building and headed for their car two streets away, she'd been slightly upset with John, saying that she was going to have nightmares for weeks now. Then she stopped in mid-stride, stared into the dark passageway to her left, and screamed.

John saw the two men a second later. At first he thought they were homeless people about to accost them for money. But when they stepped into the dirty light of the street lamp, he realized that while they may have been homeless, they were NOT people.

People didn't gleam like phosphorus in the dark or have pupils so huge that their eyes were beady and black, like those of rats or crows. Nor did they have jaws packed with abnormally long teeth that brought to mind a shark's mouth. And unless they were psychotic or on powerful hallucinogens, they didn't swoop upon a screaming woman, tear her throat out, and feast on the rich red blood, ensuring that Sarah would never have nightmares about the movie after all.

John emerged unscathed only because a midnight bus turned onto the deserted street at that moment, having been detoured because of a car accident on Killermont Street. Its headlights illuminated the carnage, sending the photosensitive creatures back into the alleyway. Their hellish growls and hisses were the last thing John heard before he fainted.

The authorities attributed Sarah's death to drug-precipitated violence. The press followed suit, pointing to recent examples of people committing gruesome acts while under the influence of LSD, PCP, or mescaline. John didn't dare contradict these published statements with the truth. First, no one would believe him, and doubts about his mental fitness could have resulted in the loss of his medical license and even his freedom. Second, he didn't want the hunters to know that they would now be the hunted.

* * *

"You're sure this is the place?" Mike Stamford asked yet again.

"That's what the e-mail said," John whispered as he swept the room with torchlight. "Remember, this Sherlock –whoever the hell he is- has never been wrong yet."

Stamford nodded reluctantly and wiped the sweat off his round face. "Let's do one more sweep. If we can't find any uglies, we should leave. Maybe they moved on, or Sherlock is wrong for once."

John didn't think so. There was a faint copper tang in the air that he recognized all too well, both as a doctor and a vampire hunter. But to humour his friend, he said, "Fine."

The two men held their machetes close as they re-explored the boarded-up shell that had once been a convenience store. Beams of light from their torches scanned the graffiti-littered walls and illuminated the dark spaces behind the rusted refrigerator and ice machine. A fire started by a careless meth cooker had gutted the interior, leaving man-sized piles of burnt wood and melted plastic for them to dodge around.

John had killed his first vampires –a man and a woman- in a similar place. Once he'd accepted that they existed, finding them had been easy. They hovered outside nightclubs, late-night movie houses, 24-hour cafes, and other places that attracted their human prey after darkness fell. Contrary to what some films and novels preached, they were not gorgeous immortals who approached unwary night owls, promising sex but delivering death instead. They were grotesque urban sharks who ambushed and devoured stragglers before slinking off to filthy rookeries to hide from the daylight.

On his first hunt, John spotted two of them lurking in the alley next to an all-night diner, and followed them back to their lair –a vacated video game parlour. When the sun rose, he infiltrated the place and quickly killed the male vampire with a vicious axe chop. The woman tackled him while he was distracted, and would have ripped his throat out had he not stumbled against the boarded-up window frame and fallen through it, dragging her with him into the daylight. In seconds, she was a pile of cinders- much to the delight of some tripping junkies lying on the pavement nearby.

As a former soldier, John wasn't afraid when he hunted. But he wasn't reckless either. He studied his enemy, online and in archival texts at the library, and soon learned what could kill them (sunlight, decapitation) what would slow them down long enough for him to escape (bullets), and what just pissed them off (garlic, crucifixes, hero worship). As he prepared for battle each night, John often wondered if there were others like him: people who'd lost loved ones to vampires and wreaked vengeance until they were either injured, or killed, or _something_.

The high mortality risk that went with his new obsession didn't scare him any more than the hunt itself. His military service had been a prep course on how to die for your country. John was certainly ready to die for mankind if he had to.

It was after his tenth kill that he began to get e-mails from a mysterious Londoner who called himself Sherlock Holmes. John had no idea how Holmes found out what he was doing, but the information the man supplied was welcome. The messages, which were sent to John's private account, contained addresses for vampire nests all over Glasgow. When John checked them out with Mike Stamford (who became a fervent believer after John saved him from a newly created vampire in the hospital morgue), he invariably found them occupied. He always asked 'Sherlock' how he came by this information, but never got an answer.

Intrigued, John researched Sherlock Holmes online but only found an obituary for a man who'd died two years previously, aged thirty-four. Cause of death was listed as accidental. The deceased was a well-known freelance detective who'd left behind a brother, Mycroft. John was tempted to contact the surviving Holmes somehow and let him know that someone was using his dead brother's name, but decided against it. His still-raw feelings over Sarah's death left him reluctant to resurrect another's pain.

"John? Did you hear that?"

Stamford's voice jerked him back to the present. "Hear what?"

"Listen!"

John obeyed. At first he didn't hear anything. Then footsteps sounded in the dark hallway that led to the shop's delivery entrance. He tensed as they grew louder. There were two of them, one considerably heavier than the other.

He raised his machete, but something wasn't right. Vampires, unless they were in daylight hibernation mode (it was now eight in the morning) would have heard and smelled the two men as soon as they broke into the building, and there would have been a fight by now. At this time of day there was no way that an undead straggler would be coming home.

A couple of street kids, maybe?

Two lights appeared at the end of the hall, and grew bigger and brighter until a man and a woman appeared in the doorway. John and Mike exhaled at the same time and lowered their weapons, because the newcomers –with their clear eyes and healthy colouring- were clearly human.

The man was in his late forties, with silvery grey hair and a serious expression. He carried himself like a policeman or soldier. The woman was no older than thirty and wore her long brown hair parted on the side. She chewed her lower lip in what John perceived as an anxious gesture. Both of them held a torch in one hand and a thick-handled ax in the other. Even in this area of Glasgow, they must have drawn stares when they entered the building with such weaponry.

"John Watson?" the man asked.

Mike shot a startled glance at his friend. John frowned. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Greg Lestrade." He indicated the young woman with a nod. "And this is Dr. Molly Hooper. We arrived in Glasgow from London last night. To find you."

"Find me? Why?"

When Molly answered, John and Mike received their second surprise of the day.

"Sherlock Holmes sent us. You need to come to London right away."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks to all who have reviewed so far. This is my first vampire AU fic, and your feedback has been really encouraging. Keep it up!

* * *

Mike Stamford reluctantly agreed to stay behind.

"I'll need you to cover for me at the surgery until I get back," John told him, referring to the part-time job he had taken to supplement his army pension. "If it looks like I'll be away for awhile, I'll ask Sherlock Holmes to send new information about Glasgow nests to you. I know you can handle them."

"All right. You'll ring or text as soon as you know more about what's happening?"

"Yes."

Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper had only told them that Holmes urgently needed to see John about London's vampire menace, which was on its way to becoming a crisis. John was confused: he read _The Times_ along with the Glasgow daily, and hadn't heard about any mass murders or mysterious disappearances plaguing the city. But he trusted Sherlock Holmes without even knowing the man, and had yet to decide if that was a good or bad thing.

After leaving the deserted vampire nest, Lestrade hailed a taxi. They dropped Stamford off at his home before proceeding to John's tiny studio flat.

"The outbreak hasn't happened yet, but it's going to, now that Moriarty is back from Norway," Lestrade said while John washed up in the bathroom.

"Who?"

"Moriarty." The policeman (Lestrade had identified himself as a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard) grimaced. "I suppose you'd call him the undead boss. Sherlock says he's older and smarter than the others, and wants vampires to stop being a scary fable and start being the dominant species. He's making himself an army, but slowly, so humanity doesn't find out until it's too late."

"Christ almighty." John shivered. He imagined London, Glasgow, and other cities swarming with vampires each evening after darkness fell, and immediately wished he hadn't. The sensory kaleidoscope of gleaming black eyes, blood-coated teeth and claws, spectre-like faces, and unearthly screeches that passed for language swiftly overwhelmed him. He shook his head to clear it and prepared to pack.

"We're already seeing signs of it," added Molly. "I work in the Pathology Department at Barts. Last week two bodies were brought in that were clearly the victims of vampire attack. One of them started to transform right on the dissecting table: thank goodness I was holding the bone saw at the time."

John pulled his army duffel bag out of the closet, threw it on the bed, and began filling it with clothing. "Any reason why you won't tell me anything more about Sherlock Holmes?"

Molly looked quickly at Lestrade, who cleared his throat. "It's best if you just see him and talk to him yourself."

"See him?" John paused. "Why, does he look like the Elephant Man?"

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Oh God, no." Molly chimed in, "He's quite beautiful, actually."

So Sherlock Holmes was 'beautiful.' That wasn't much to go on, but it would have to do until John finally met the man.

"I'm presuming I don't need to bring any weapons?"

"No," Molly smiled. "We've got plenty of extras."

John packed his army revolver anyway. He hated the thought of leaving Glasgow without it.

When they left the flat, Lestrade took out his mobile and sent a text. To John's surprise, a sleek black sedan with shaded windows was waiting at the curb when they stepped into the street.

"This is your car?" he asked, impressed.

"It belongs to Sherlock's brother," Molly replied. "You'll like him. He's bossy, but nice."

The car took them to a private airfield south of the city. When John saw the helicopter that stirred to life at their approach, he exclaimed, "Don't tell me _that_ belongs to Sherlock's brother too."

"Technically it belongs to the British government," Lestrade replied. "Which basically means that yeah, it's his."

After they'd all climbed into the machine and its ascent began, John slumped in his seat. So much had happened in the last eight hours – encountering fellow vampire hunters from London, being told that he would finally meet the mysterious Sherlock Holmes, flying across the country in a private helicopter – that he was mentally as well as physically exhausted. Twenty minutes into the flight, his eyelids drooped, and he reluctantly let them close. The steady hum of the helicopter's motor soon lulled him to sleep.

* * *

"We're here," Lestrade announced.

John jerked awake. "We are?"

He stared about, and saw that they had landed at another airfield, this one obviously in use by the military. Soldiers patrolled along the electrified fence that separated the airstrip and an adjacent building and hangar from a field, forest, and distant highway. As he unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the helicopter, Lestrade commented, "Sherlock said you're a military man."

John rubbed his eyes and reached for his own belt. "Yes. Captain John Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Must be why you've survived this long as a hunter. Most don't make it past their second or third kill."

"How many have you gotten?" John undid the buckle, grabbed his bag, and jumped onto the tarmac.

"I'm at twenty-two now, thanks to Sherlock."

"Here comes Mr. Holmes!" Molly exclaimed. "I didn't know he'd be here."

John turned around and saw a medium-sized group emerge from the sterile-looking airport building. They were an equal mix of uniformed military and suited-up civilians. Spearheading their approach was a tall, auburn-haired man wearing an impeccably tailored suit and carrying an umbrella. When he drew closer, the quickening breeze blew his overcoat away from his body, revealing a strange contraption strapped to his hip. It looked like a gun, with fluorescent tubing for the barrel. An attractive brunette tapping away on a Blackberry shadowed him so closely that she had to be his assistant.

"You called him Mr. Holmes," John said to Molly without taking his eyes away from the approaching group. "Is that Sherlock?"

"No. That's his older brother, Mycroft."

John was incredulous. The _Times_ obituary had stated that the brother of the deceased Sherlock was named Mycroft. What was going on here? He was still trying to reach a logical conclusion when the imposing crowd surrounded them. Mycroft Holmes smiled pleasantly, but his blue eyes swept over John like searchlights.

"Dr. Watson," he said in measured, aristocratic tones. He did not offer his hand. "I'm Mycroft Holmes. Thank you for coming. I presume that Detective Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Hooper have explained why you're here?"

"For the most part," John said cautiously. "I understand that your brother Sherlock sent for me. What I'm not so sure about is how. The only Sherlock Holmes I found online has been dead for two years now."

Mycroft's smile broadened. "Don't believe everything you read online."

"Why would the _Times_ lie in an obit?"

"Money."

John didn't know what to say to that. Mycroft gave him a final once-over and relaxed fractionally.

"I understand that you've been throwing a nice bit of the terror into Glasgow's vampire element all summer."

"Who's been saying that?"

"Let's just say that your actions have come to my brother's attention and therefore mine. We'd like to have you on our team, Dr. Watson. Our sources tell us that we may be mere weeks away from extinction of the human race in Britain and quite possibly the modern world." Holmes glanced at Lestrade and Molly. "Did either of you tell him about Moriarty?"

"Just the basics," Lestrade replied. "I figured we'd let Sherlock tell him the rest."

Mycroft nodded. "It's a long story, and I have to be on my way to Liverpool now. My sources indicate that a vampire community is being formed there. I need to investigate and, if the intel is correct, put a stop to it before the situation escalates."

Before he could reply, John's mobile signalled an incoming text. He fished it out of his coat pocket and opened the message, which was from an unknown number.

_Welcome to London, John. Tell Mycroft to stop monopolizing you, as we need to talk. Sherlock Holmes._

"What the hell?" John stared at the elder Holmes. "Sherlock just texted me. How'd he know my number?"

"Get used to it, John," Lestrade sighed. "Keeping anything secret from the Holmes brothers is like trying to… well, do something impossible."

"Just so, Gregory." Before turning away, Mycroft Holmes gave John a final once-over and said, "I can see you favour your right arm in battle because of a shoulder wound, Dr. Watson, but the damage is mostly healed, so do start using your left more often. You also drink far too much coffee and it makes your aim unsteady although your muscle tone ensures that your blows are lethal when you do connect. Still, any type of weakness in this fight is an invitation to die early. I advise you to remember that. Good day."

Then he was striding back toward the airport with his entourage, his very silhouette proud and commanding, leaving John with a myriad of unspoken questions.

The answers would have to come from Sherlock, it appeared.

* * *

"This is it?" John asked as the car Mycroft had supplied rolled to a halt in front of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock's address.

"Yup," Molly answered cheerfully. "I hope Mrs. Hudson's in. I'm feeling peckish, and Sherlock doesn't keep any food in the flat."

"He doesn't? What does he eat then?"

"Nothing," Lestrade said. "That's one thing that didn't change when he-" He stopped himself.

John was about to ask what he meant when the building's door opened and an attractive older woman waved them in.

"Detective Inspector! Molly!" she beamed. "And this must be Dr. Watson. Come in! Come in!"

"This is Mrs. Hudson," Molly supplied. "She's the landlady."

John looked at all three of them. "Why do I get the feeling that I was the last one to find out I was coming here today?"

Lestrade laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go see Sherlock. He'll explain everything."

The entrance hall at 221B Baker Street was so dark that John was temporarily blinded. The curtains were actually stitched shut, keeping out the slightest trace of the early afternoon sunlight, and the lights were off except for a dim bulb at the foot of the stairs. "Sorry about that, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Hudson sighed when he nearly tripped over a crease in the rug. "But it's easier for Sherlock to get around the house like this."

"Is he allergic to light?" John was only half-kidding, as the condition did exist. But it was extremely rare.

"You could say that," Lestrade replied as he led the way upstairs. "Exposure to sunlight would definitely kill him."

"What?"

Before anyone could answer him, a rich and deep male voice floated down from the second floor. "Ah, splendid, you've brought John at last. I was concerned that Mycroft was being more overbearing than usual. Come up, please. I'm sure John's quite curious by now."

That was an understatement. John would have bolted up the staircase if Lestrade hadn't been in the way. He was nearly dancing with anticipation at the thought of meeting his mysterious informant at last. He had so many questions that he was hard-pressed to decide which one to ask first.

The door to the second floor flat was open, revealing what must have been a sitting room. Like the downstairs, it was cloaked in shadows, with only a heavily shaded floor lamp providing illumination. Books and overstuffed file folders were piled everywhere, even on the floor, making the place resemble a neglected stockroom. A gaudy Victorian-style wallpaper pattern and multitude of framed maps and charts amplified the impression of chaotic genius.

As they stepped onto the landing and approached, John spotted a man standing in front of a silent fireplace, his back to them. He was tall and extremely slender, and had wavy dark hair that brushed the top of his purple shirt collar. He was also pale, if the slender white fingers rummaging among the objects on the mantel were any indication. Despite the stuffiness due to the closed windows, he wore a tightly fitted black jacket and trousers.

"Welcome, John," he said in a voice that was all darkness and velvet. "I'm glad we are meeting at last. I hope Lestrade and Molly were pleasant company. They don't always succeed at that, but they do try."

Sherlock Holmes turned around.

At the sight of his face, John dropped his duffel bag and dove for his gun.


	3. Chapter 3

John whipped his automatic out of his pocket, removed the safety, and took aim. Before he could run, fire, or do anything else 'fight or flight' related, Lestrade seized his wrist.

"No, John! It's all right. Sherlock isn't like the others."

Heart pounding violently, the doctor hissed, "What the fuck's going on here? He's a goddamn _vampire_."

There was no mistaking it: those expressionless black eyes and the marble-white, veinless skin confirmed that Sherlock Holmes had indeed died two years ago. But even in his shock, John immediately spotted differences between the figure who regarded him impassively and the feral creatures he'd been tracking and slaying all summer. For one thing, every vampire he'd encountered had a distorted face and elongated jaw to accommodate their piranha-like teeth. Sherlock's facial features were normal. Glancing down at his hands, John saw that the nails were sharp and above average length, but not the misshapen claws of his brethren. And perhaps most important of all, Sherlock Holmes could speak. In John's experience, vampires only communicated via bloodcurdling growls and noises. Before now, he'd never heard one talk.

Sherlock gave him a tight smile that was probably meant to convey sympathy but came across as contemptuous instead.

"John," he said in that cavernous baritone. "I appreciate that this is quite a shock for you."

John swallowed. "That's understating it."

"I see that you've assessed me and observed the myriad differences between me and my fellow undead. Rest assured that Lestrade is correct for once. I'm a vampire, yes, but not like them."

"What are you then?" John let Lestrade gently lower his wrist, although the grip on his gun remained tight. "A different breed?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'm an accident, actually."

"What are you talking about?"

Sensing that the crisis had passed, Mrs. Hudson said something about getting a tea and biscuit tray ready and went back downstairs.

"I was bitten two years ago, John, but superficially. For some reason, my transformation was incomplete. I'm still trying to determine why." He gestured toward the kitchen, where John could see an assortment of chemistry equipment on the table. "I'm clinically dead- I have no heartbeat or body temperature. My teeth and nails are those of the vampire, although comparatively smaller. I'm much stronger than a man. But in spite of all these changes, I managed to hold onto my humanity somehow."

"What do you do for nourishment?" John asked warily.

Sherlock smiled, flashing white teeth that were faintly pointed at the ends. "Funny you should ask about that. I rarely ate when I was alive, and even less now. When I must indulge to keep up my strength, Molly brings me blood from the hospital."

"At least you don't drink it in front of us anymore," Molly commented gratefully.

"Of course not. I don't need you to vomit on my rug a second time."

She blushed and lowered her eyes. When she raised them again, John saw her regard Sherlock with something akin to hero worship. Maybe paranormal romance novels were her guilty pleasure when she wasn't dismembering vampires. And, he conceded, Sherlock _was _attractive. Beautiful, even, just like she'd said earlier. With his impressive height, slim build, and luxurious dark hair, he could have been a male model instead of a 'consulting detective' (as the obit had put it) while alive.

Lestrade strolled into the flat, and after a brief hesitation, John pocketed his gun and followed. His eyes roamed everywhere, taking in the mismatched furniture, dusty bookshelves, and foggy jars containing what looked like anatomical specimens. Molly, still blushing like a schoolgirl, danced over to a sofa and sat. Lestrade joined her.

"Please sit, John." Sherlock gestured to one of two chairs arranged in front of the fireplace. When John complied, the vampire settled into the other chair. He crossed his long legs, steepled his fingertips, and rested his chin on them. "You have questions. Now is your time for answers."

John's first question was not one of the dozens he'd rehearsed. He had just noticed a photo in a heavy pewter frame, perched in the centre of the mantel and adorned by a fresh rose. An obviously human Sherlock and an attractive dark-haired woman were sitting at a crowded table; she was beaming for the camera while he appeared to tolerate it.

"Is that your wife? Or girlfriend?"

Sherlock followed his gaze. His expression didn't change, but his voice grew slightly raspy. "Best friend."

"Oh."

"You want to know what happened to her. Why she isn't here and there's a flower marking her portrait."

Knowing that there was no hiding anything from Sherlock Holmes, John nodded.

"You're not the only one who lost someone to the vampires, John. Irene was my assistant when I was a consulting detective. Brilliant woman. Competing with her sharpened my own deductive abilities." His full lips thinned into a tight frown. "We were leaving a crime scene out in Slough when they ambushed us. There were three of them. Two of them killed her and drained her dry. The third went for my neck with his teeth. Lesson number one: when a vampire kills for food, they slash the throat with their claws. When they bite on the first attempt, it means that they want to make the target one of them."

Lestrade spoke up. "We don't know yet what influences their decision as to who to kill and who to transform. It may be just arbitrary."

Sherlock snarled, making him look more vampire than human. "The reasoning is irrelevant. They killed Irene and altered me forever. That decision should never have been theirs to make."

"I know how you feel," John said quietly. "When Sarah was butchered in front of me – there's no other word for it- they may not have made me into a vampire, but I was altered forever too."

"I know. That's why I looked you up and sent you information about Glasgow sanctuaries once word of your activities reached me. You've made vampire hunting a mission, like Mycroft, Molly, and Lestrade have. Everyone in this room is prepared to die fighting them. Like I did." Sherlock's voice assumed a bitter edge. "God, how I fought that hellish thing when it threw me down and pinned me. I wore a scarf and my coat collar was raised, so my neck was only grazed on the first attempt. Before the creature could try again, Mycroft's team arrived and dispatched it. For once, my brother's penchant for spying on me was moderately useful."

"I liked Irene," Molly said sadly. "She was lovely."

"I spent the first year of my new existence in one of Mycroft's facilities," Sherlock continued. "It was a wise precaution, as no one had been partially bitten before and there was no way of predicting how dangerous I would be. A military scientific team ran tests on me and subjected me to simulations that assessed my violent tendencies. As it turned out, I only experienced a desire to hurt my own kind. I needed blood to survive, but refused to kill to get it."

"I'm having difficulty imagining a vampire with that kind of restraint," John admitted.

Sherlock stood with such speed and fluid grace that the doctor barely saw him move. One moment he was sitting, and the next he was hovering over John, their faces inches apart.

"I won't lie to you, John. It is tempting. Your blood is like chocolate to me: sweet and intoxicating. But indulging would make me no better than the monsters who slaughtered Irene and Sarah."

John shivered, but not from cold or fear. Sherlock really was beautiful, especially up close like this. His voice was resonant and seductive, and that _mouth_: women would have envied his full lips.

The moment was broken by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson, who carried a wide tray with a large teapot, three cups, and a platter of biscuits. She laid it on the table next to John's chair and said, "I hope this is enough, Dr. Watson. I'd have made sandwiches, but there's no bread. I have to get the shopping."

"This is lovely. Thank you," he smiled at her. Sherlock resumed his seat while Lestrade and Molly got off the sofa and helped themselves to the spread. John settled for a cup of tea and sipped it, letting the heat and caffeine kick-start his senses back to life. His skin was still a mass of gooseflesh after being so close to Sherlock.

When Mrs. Hudson left, John looked back at the being he was starting to regard as a dark angel instead of a vampire. "Tell me about Moriarty. Greg said that he's planning an invasion that won't leave any human alive."

Sherlock's sombre expression returned. "Not quite. He intends to spare a few young and healthy specimens for breeding purposes, to keep the food supply in place. But everyone else will be turned into vampires or food. It's a vile scheme that we have to prevent him from carrying out."

"Sick fucker," Lestrade muttered into his cup.

"Moriarty's not like other vampires," Sherlock continued. "He's an Elder. There are less than twenty of them worldwide. They're not rabid killers like the rest. They're intelligent as opposed to just cunning, and can pass for human when it suits them, which makes them difficult to detect until it's too late."

"Is he here in London?" John asked.

Sherlock inclined his head. "He's been here for nearly a week now. I'm not positive yet where he's hiding, but I should know soon. And when I do, we'll have to plan our assault carefully. Elders are very well-guarded. They're the monarchs of the vampire world, creating and controlling masses of drones who would die rather than see harm come to them."

"What makes you think we can get close enough to eliminate him?"

"Simple. We have something he wants."

"Which is?"

Sherlock smiled. "Me."


	4. Chapter 4

"You?" John was curious. "Is it because you've been sending vampire hunters to nests all over the country?"

"No. He's oblivious to that, although I'm sure that when he finds out, his efforts to locate me will intensify. Moriarty is interested in me for the same reason as the scientists in Mycroft's facility were: I am a vampire whose human identity survived the transformation. The only one in the world, apparently." Sherlock rose and stood before the mirror, studying his reflection. "My stubborn humanity puts me outside his control, and he's concerned that I might create others like me."

"Want to hear something crazy?" Lestrade asked John. "When Mycroft realized that Sherlock wasn't a threat to humans, he wanted to add vampire soldiers to the British military, using Sherlock as the source."

John, who'd just taken a mouthful of tea, spat it out. "_What?"_

"That's Mycroft. He's the most dangerous man you'd ever want to meet." Sherlock sat back down. "The idea was a novel one, I admit. Hundreds of military personnel have cancer, heart disease, and other fatal conditions. Perhaps you know a few, John. Mycroft wondered if my venom could serve a dual purpose: give willing invalids a second chance and make Britain's armed forces unstoppable- except during daylight battles, of course."

As a doctor, John had provided palliative care to soldiers suffering from the illnesses Sherlock had just mentioned, and marvelled that he'd never resorted to drugs or the bottle like some of his colleagues had. Shrivelled faces contorted in false cheer, bodies that contained more chemicals than blood; it all gave him nightmares to this day. If Sherlock's bite could provide an alternative to a debilitating death, he knew he should embrace the idea. He supported organ transplants, artificial insemination, and other scientific challenges to the natural order, but the very idea of 'curing' people by turning them into vampires –even sentient ones like their creator- unsettled him.

"The idea was eventually abandoned," Sherlock said. "Unless I actually bit or otherwise infected someone, there was no way to be sure that my venom wouldn't create rabid murderers like the ones out there." He jerked his chin toward one of the windows. "I love a good experiment, but not at that price, so I refused to participate."

"I remember the day you and your brother rowed about it." Molly shuddered as she bit into a chocolate biscuit. "Didn't he threaten to cut off your blood supply?"

"I made it up to him though," Sherlock smirked. "You saw that gun he carries, the one with the glowing barrel?" When John nodded, he said, "I designed it for him. It shoots specially engineered ultraviolet rays: artificial daylight, which is lethal to vampires. All his hunters carry them now."

John was impressed. "You're also a chemist, then?" He nodded toward the assortment of tubes and beakers on the kitchen table.

"Of sorts, although I lack a degree. Why pay a university to teach me something that I know better than any of their so-called instructors?"

John smiled. Most people would have called Sherlock Holmes an arrogant sod. He had a decidedly low opinion of others: even Lestrade and Molly had not evaded his acid tongue. But the former army doctor found him strangely compelling. He was a fascinating study in contradiction: a vampire genius who used his intelligence as a weapon against his own kind, and who invited people to his lair to serve them food instead of add them to the menu. Although the black eyes, sharp teeth, and corpse-like pallor had initially alarmed him, John realized that a man existed beneath it all: a man who'd been victimized by dark elements and refused to submit.

Sherlock smiled as if aware of the scrutiny. "If you're all done playing havoc with your blood sugar levels, I propose that we discuss today's hunt."

"Fine by me," Lestrade said eagerly. He set his teacup on the coffee table and stood. "Are the blueprints still on the kitchen table?"

"Yes, but do be careful. I've got three Bunsen burners going near where I left them."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" The policeman bolted toward the kitchen, muttering something about "brilliant in some ways, bloody stupid in others."

John sat up straight and brushed the crumbs off his lap. "You've got a hunt planned for today?"

"Yes." Sherlock stood when a glowering Lestrade carried a rolled-up document into the room and laid it out on the coffee table, revealing an aging building blueprint. "I presume you're willing to join."

"Oh God, yes."

John should have been exhausted. So much had happened to him today that he wondered why he wasn't on the verge of mainlining tea or coffee to stay awake. Was he still flooded with adrenaline from his initial shock at Sherlock's appearance? Or was he excited at the prospect of more action?

Or maybe it was Sherlock. Sitting across from him, John felt hyper-alert, as if his senses and energy levels had been recalibrated somehow by the vampire's presence. He was usually like this only when hunting or meeting a new love interest.

Molly's voice interrupted his self-examination. "I'll call Sally when we've decided on a time."

"Sally?"

"Sergeant Sally Donovan," Lestrade clarified. "She's attached to my office at the Met. She joined us after vampires killed her sister and everyone except me blamed it on gang violence. She's headstrong and defiant, but damned good at what she does."

"She won't come here for meetings though," Molly said sourly. "She doesn't like Sherlock: calls him Freak, which is horrible."

Sherlock sounded both amused and irritated. "Sally refuses to believe that I'm not a threat. She thinks that I'm as dangerous as the rest, just doing a better job of hiding it. It's annoying, but as Lestrade pointed out, she's an exceptional fighter."

Lestrade clicked on the heavily shaded overhead light so they could see the blueprint clearly. John saw that it represented a building in Wapping, near the north bank of the Thames. Sherlock touched the fragile paper with one finger, careful not to shred it with his long nail.

"My sources indicate that a group of about ten vampires moved into this location two nights ago. It's been abandoned since 1989. The windows and all of the doors leading inside are boarded up except for this old fire exit here," he said, pointing at the entrance in question. "When you go in, take the usual precautions: stay together and keep windows and other sources of daylight in close proximity."

Something occurred to John. "If we're doing this during the day, what about you? How can you go too?"

Sherlock pressed his mouth into a tight line. "I don't," he admitted, sounding faintly angry.

"Daytime really is the best time to do it, as you know, John," Lestrade said. "Anyone who tries to raid a vampire nest at night is a bloody idiot."

"I know," John said. He privately wondered if Sherlock didn't conduct and personally lead nighttime hunts because he didn't want to risk capture by Moriarty. "All right then, when do we leave? If there's time, I'd like to find an inexpensive room here in London. It sounds like I might be here for awhile."

"You can stay here, if you like." Sherlock's bottomless eyes shifted to him. "There's an extra bedroom, and I can tidy up a bit."

"Me? Stay here?"

"Unless you'd rather not, and I would understand if that's the case. There's a lot I'd like to teach you about our common enemy, John, and brief visits between hunts probably won't allow us to encompass everything."

John looked around. The flat was cosy, and had some nice vintage touches like the fireplace and patterned wallpaper. The clutter was off-putting, but if Sherlock cleaned it up as he promised, the place could be quite nice indeed, even if daylight was forever forbidden and the refrigerator doubled as a blood bank.

"All right," John said, not wanting to think about what Mike Stamford would say when he found out. It defied all rationale: sharing a flat with a member of a species he'd sworn to eradicate. But Sherlock was different, and John felt safe around him. "Let's discuss it when I get back."

Sherlock looked pleased. "I feel obliged to warn you, though. I play the violin at all hours. I also don't sleep, so I'm always moving about. Hopefully that won't disturb you."

"Not after three months in a barracks with insomniac soldiers inside and bomb blasts outside. I did a tour of duty in Afghanistan."

"And you were wounded, I see. In the left shoulder." When John nodded, Sherlock beamed. "I can tell that this is going to be rather fun. Having someone around to discuss new developments with will benefit me immensely."

That comment made John understand Sherlock Holmes even more. Proud but lonely in life, and even more so in death.

* * *

An hour later, John, Lestrade, and Molly left Baker Street and drove to an intersection three blocks away from the nest site. When their car pulled over to the curb, an attractive young black woman stepped out of a chemists' and approached.

John knew before Lestrade even greeted her that this was Sally Donovan. She had the air of a woman on an important mission, and she carried the vampire hunter's standard accessory: a duffle bag that bulged with weapons.

She slid into the back seat, next to John, and eyed him curiously. "Who's this then?" she asked.

"This is John Watson, Sally," Lestrade replied as he manoeuvred the car back into the street. "The bloke who's been cleaning out the uglies in Glasgow."

"Yeah? Heard about you. Nice job. I'm Sally Donovan." She extended her hand, and John shook it. "You just arrived, then?"

"This morning. Sherlock said he needed help with what's coming."

Sally's expression changed from affable to disgusted. "Oh, tell me a new one."

"Sally," Lestrade warned.

"It's true. I don't know why you all think he's some kind of good guy. The Freak's a vampire, and one day you're all going to get an unpleasant reminder of that. Mark my words." She crossed her arms and gazed out the window. "I'm only on board with this because his information is good. But I don't trust him any more than I trust any bloodsucker."

Molly turned in her seat, cheeks red. "You refuse to give him a chance. You're prejudiced!"

"If anyone's got sharp teeth and no heartbeat, you bet your arse I'm prejudiced against them. Don't shout the odds at me because you're naïve."

Lestrade's fingers throttled the steering wheel. "Stop it, both of you. We're here."

They had pulled up in front of a three-storey brick warehouse that dated back to the Victorian era, and still had traces of a painted sign – Barton Textiles- visible on its face. Graffiti-covered boards were nailed across the windows, and a rusted wire fence provided poor protection against trespassers. It looked as if no one had gone inside since its 1989 closure, but John knew that if Sherlock was correct, it was far from empty. He stared at it, heartbeat accelerating until the blood roared in his ears.

After everyone exited the sedan, Lestrade hauled their weapons bag out of the boot and hefted it over his shoulder. "For obvious reasons, we pass out the firepower once we're inside," he told John. "I have my badge on me, but there's only so much I could explain away if a local patrol gets nosy."

As they walked toward the silent structure, Molly wondered aloud, "I wonder if Moriarty's in there."

"Doubt it," Sally grunted. "He's supposed to be bloodsucker royalty, isn't he? He wouldn't stay in a shithole like this."

John knew that she was probably right, but as they approached the entrance that Sherlock had indicated on the map, he entertained the possibility that Moriarty was inside, slumming it to impress and intimidate his minions.

Elder or not, John couldn't wait to confront him.

"Look." Lestrade halted suddenly and pointed at the dusty ground in front of the door, his jaw tight and expression dark. "The bastards are here all right."

Everyone looked. Bloody footprints, drying but still visible, led the way into the building, indicating that murderers slumbered inside. John's hands twitched and his next words shot from his mouth like bullets.

"Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade went into the building first.

The large steel door was already partly open, allowing a thin slice of sunlight to penetrate the interior. No vampires would be lurking or resting anywhere close to the bright rays, but Lestrade still had John and Sally cover him with torches and ultraviolet weaponry. When he gave the all-clear signal they filed in slowly and carefully, their torchlight stabbing the shadows.

The sweet, ripe-fruit odour of decomposition was strong, so John wasn't surprised to find a body –human- lying on the cracked cement floor. While the others trained their weapons on the dark and silent corridor that led into the building, he approached the figure and bent down cautiously.

It was a young Asian man. His sightless eyes seemed to regard John with reproach, as if scolding him for arriving too late. A jagged throat wound and multiple bite marks on various pulse points left no doubt as to what had killed him.

"How long do you reckon he's been dead?" Sally whispered.

John picked up the corpse's wrist and let it fall. "Rigour Mortis has set in, so at least three or four hours. He hasn't achieved maximum rigidity yet, so he was killed less than twelve hours ago."

Lestrade shone a torch all over the floor. "The blood's not smeared everywhere, so there was no struggle. He didn't resist them."

Bracing himself, John leaned in close enough to sniff the man's lips. "Can't smell alcohol on him. Drugs, maybe?" He looked down and spotted both fresh and healed needle marks in the fish-white elbows. "Yes, definitely drugs. Poor bastard probably came in here to shoot up, never expecting to become dinner." He stood up and brushed off his knees. "Shall we carry on?"

Sally's jaw was clenched. "Yes. Let's."

Several sets of bloody shoe prints led from the body into the corridor. Lestrade was on point, with Molly and John flanking him and Sally keeping her torch and her weapon aimed at the ceiling in case an insomniac vampire attempted an ambush.

The building was almost as dangerous as its new occupants. Chunks of concrete, abandoned needles, and crushed tin cans littered the floor, and dead but low-hanging electrical wires caught John in the face twice. The corridor was lined with empty doorways opening into rooms filled with stained mattresses, broken crates, and assorted rubbish. John's airways rebelled against the combined smell of mould, urine, and what he suspected was rotting flesh.

"I think we'll find more bodies in here," he muttered after coughing into his hand.

"Judging by the stink, lots of them." Lestrade shone his torch into a small room, its light sending a few rats scurrying. He looked down at the floor. "The footprints keep going. The nest must be pretty deep inside."

"We should lower our voices then," Molly advised. "Just in case."

Vampires went into hibernation mode during daylight hours. This clock-driven stasis was like suspended animation, recharging their strength but leaving them vulnerable to attack. Loud noises, such as screams or gunfire, could rouse them, but they were unresponsive to lower-decibel sounds. There were exceptions, however: injured vampires slept lightly, their pain making it impossible for them to rest like their brethren. John and Mike Stamford once had their element of surprise ruined that way, and were lucky to get out of the nest alive.

Sally stopped in front of a doorway. "What's this?"

Her torch illuminated two obviously human figures standing against a steel support beam. One was a man, the other a woman, both in their early twenties. Their clothes were ragged and filthy and their chins rested against their still-moving chests. Crudely tied ropes bound them to the beam. Their faces were caked with dried blood and gaffer tape sealed their mouths.

"I think we came just in time," John whispered.

Vampires occasionally kept live victims in their nests. John's guess was that these unfortunate people stumbled onto the premises when the monsters were too sated to feed anymore that night, and were held captive until the coven's hunger returned. John had found these short-term prisoners during past raids, but only after they'd been killed.

He flashed his torch all over the room, but it was empty except for an overturned rubbish bin.

"Everyone go slowly, all right?" Lestrade ordered. "These poor people are probably half out of their minds by now."

He approached the man while Sally headed for the girl. Molly remained in the doorway, monitoring the corridor, while John followed Lestrade, still marvelling at finding two victims alive.

When Lestrade touched his shoulder, the man jerked awake with a muffled wail and stared wildly about, chest heaving. His muted cry woke up his companion, who joined him in panic-fuelled flailing.

"Shhh, you're safe. We're not with _them_," Sally whispered. The girl stared at her before turning her head to take in everyone else. She and the man ceased their struggles, but continued to tremble all over like dogs in a thunderstorm.

"We'll take that tape off your mouths, but you have to be quiet," Lestrade warned. "Those fuckers are sleeping but they'll hear anything loud. Nod if you understand."

They both nodded. Tears of relief collected in the girl's eyes and ran down her filthy cheeks.

While Sally carefully removed the tape, John came closer. "My name's John Watson- I'm a doctor," he told them. "We're going to get you out of here. Are either of you injured?"

"N-no," the young man said in a parched voice. "T-those things took us when we came in here to get high. I-I think they plan to kill us."

"Well, they won't get the chance," Sally soothed as she fished a clasp knife out of her coat pocket and cut their bindings. When the ropes fell to the floor, they stumbled hastily from the support beam and rubbed their wrists to restore the circulation.

"I think my leg is hurt," the girl whimpered. John trained his torch on her lower body, and saw a six-inch gash in her right thigh. It had stopped bleeding, but the skin around the area was shiny and tight with oncoming infection.

"Can you walk?" he asked her.

She took a few careful steps. "Yes, but not too fast."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Amy. This is Paul."

Lestrade faced the team. "Let's get them out of here. We can come back after we've gotten them to a hospital."

John nodded. "Right."

He knew what would happen when the pair arrived at A&E. One or both of them would cave in mentally and babble a story about being held prisoner by blood-drinking ghouls with piranha jaws. The staff would be polite, maybe even compassionate, but John knew what they would think: that the pair had been given bad LSD or some other designer drug and mauled by a gang.

No one wanted to believe that vampires existed. The thought that mankind had a dedicated predator would exceed the ability of most people to cope, so any proof to the contrary met with a hostile reaction. The few who did talk were ridiculed at best, locked up in hospitals or prisons at worst.

_If Moriarty has his way,_ John realized, _the slaughter will begin before any defence can be mounted. Humanity is actively participating in its own future extinction._

Sally touched the girl's arm. "Do you know where they are in here? The vampires?"

Amy's lips trembled. "_Everywhere_."

No sooner had she spoken when a huge brown rat scurried across her blood-flecked trainers. She wobbled backwards and screamed so loudly that John's right ear went numb. He only had time for a single panicked thought: _Oh my God, that will bring them. _Then the building came alive with high-speed footsteps, flying shadows, and shrill screams, both vampire and human.

Molly, who stood in the doorway, was slammed to the floor by a snarling, snapping female vampire wearing a cracked leather corset and skirt and shredded fishnets. John took aim at the creature, but before he could unleash an ultraviolet volley, a second vampire rushed him. This one was bald, male, and dressed in a decaying black jumper and jeans. He swung his weapon and smashed the barrel into its cheek, knocking it down. Before it could leap at him again, Lestrade disintegrated its head with a blast of blindingly white light.

Molly had braced her forearm against her attacker's throat, keeping those gnashing teeth at bay. She had dropped her gun and torch, but wasn't totally defenceless: with her other hand, she pulled a Bowie knife from its belt clip and drove the blade into the vampire's eye socket, piercing the brain. When it rolled off of her, howling in pain and rage, she scrambled onto her knees, pulled the knife out, and used it to decapitate her adversary with one decisive stroke.

Sally was struggling with a female Asian vampire whose strength belied its tiny stature. She kicked it in the belly, pushing it back several steps, and John administered the coup de grace with an ultraviolet shot. The weapon's deadly effectiveness amazed him: Sherlock Holmes was a damned genius.

More were arriving, though. Sherlock's estimate had been that ten vampires lived here. Three were down, and a lot more than seven poured into the room. John knew that they had to run.

"Let's get out of here!" he shouted.

"I second that," Lestrade grunted. Shielding a crying, screaming Amy with his body, he edged toward the doorway. Molly, who had retrieved her gun, used it to keep oncoming vampires at bay as she darted into the corridor.

"Sally, help me cover," she yelled. "Everyone else run for the exit."

While the two women fired bolts of light into the hallway, illuminating it in brief flashes and sending oncoming creatures skittering back, John and Lestrade herded Paul and Amy out of the room. Three wounded vampires attempted to give chase, but froze when John pointed his gun at them. They'd seen what happened to their coven mates, and weren't hungry enough to risk destruction. The doctor melted inside with relief at their hesitation: the weapon was out of ammunition, but they had no way of knowing that.

All six people ran for the safety of daylight. Pain exploded in John's ankles as he stumbled over pieces of rubble, but he kept going, for stopping meant certain death. He heard Lestrade swear: clearly the Yarder's weapon had given out too.

They were within sight of the exit when four vampires suddenly emerged from a room up ahead, blocking off their escape. They didn't rush the fleeing team, but merely stood there, lips pulled back in feral grins. _Relishing our fear before they kill us,_ John thought.

"Fuck!" Sally yelled when she pulled her gun's trigger and nothing came out except a weak flash.

"In here!" Molly cried. "This room has a door!"

They followed her into a small, rubbish-strewn chamber that was barely twelve feet square. Before she could slam the heavy metal door shut, a vampire thrust its arm inside, blood-caked claws grasping. Lestrade pulled his hunting knife out of its clip and hacked at the limb until the creature pulled back with a pained howl, letting the door be closed completely. Molly slid the bolt home, but the vampires outside continued to beat at it and scream like deranged hyenas.

"Jesus Christ!" John leaned against a wall that was coated with graffiti and other things he'd rather not think of. His hands trembled so badly that both his torch and the now-useless gun clattered to the floor.

"What have we got for working weapons, besides knives?" Lestrade demanded.

They took a quick inventory: everyone's ultraviolet weapon was dead, their charges having been dissipated by such heavy usage. Sally had a Glock and John carried his army automatic, but unless a vampire received multiple and simultaneous shots to the head, bullets only slowed them temporarily.

"What are we going to do?" Amy wailed, hands pressed to her mouth. "We're trapped."

The wild pounding of fists on steel was abating, and a frustrated edge now underscored the howling. The door was keeping the vampires at bay -for now, anyway- but as long as they remained in the corridor outside, the team could not escape.

"We've got to call Mycroft. He'll send a team." Lestrade took out his mobile and dialled the number. Suddenly his face fell. "What the fuck? It says 'No signal'?"

"Let me try mine." John found the iPhone Harry had given him after he returned from Afghanistan. When it failed to find a signal too, he groaned. "Oh, God, no."

"It's got to be these heavy concrete walls." Sally stared about. "Of all the- hey, are you all right?"

"What is it?" Molly exclaimed.

Sally's torch was pointed at Paul, who was crouching on the floor, arms wrapped around his stomach and sweating profusely. John hurried over to him and touched his shoulder.

"Paul? Are you hurt?"

The young man looked at everyone with despair. "I've been bitten," he whimpered.

"What?" Amy gasped.

"Where?" John demanded. "Show me."

Paul, fingers trembling, pulled his shirt collar to one side. A jagged bite mark stood in vivid relief against the patch of shoulder above his collarbone, and the front of his T-shirt was slimy with blood. "It doesn't hurt," he said, voice barely a whisper. "But the rest of me does. Fuck, I feel like I've got acid in my veins."

Amy slumped against the wall and slid into a foetal position on the floor. "No, no, no," she sobbed.

Sally's expression darkened. "He's going to change," she said, taking her Glock from its holster. "We have to end it before he's stronger than the lot of us combined."

Bile burned John's throat. "Not while he's still human. We aren't murderers."

"No, she's right." Paul collapsed onto his side, face a mask of agony and limbs shaking uncontrollably. His trainers kicked wide arcs in the dirt on the floor. "I… I feel myself slipping away. Oh fuck…."

"It might not be necessary," Molly pleaded. "Sherlock held on. He didn't change completely."

Sally took aim. "That's your opinion. John, move away from him."

Amy sprang to her feet. "Don't you touch him!"

"Miss," Lestrade said grimly, "he's turning into one of those things outside. As soon as it's complete, he's going to try to kill all of us."

"No, he's not!" She joined John at the injured man's side. Paul had rolled onto his elbows and knees and buried his face against his folded forearms. "Paul? Stay with me."

His only response was a low moan that deepened into a chesty growl. John leaped up, seized the girl by the arm, and moved back several paces. Then he extracted his automatic, slid the safety off, and pointed at the shaking figure's head.

"Let me see your face," he ordered.

Paul looked up slowly. His eyes were entirely black, and his teeth had already become sharp and elongated. He snarled at John and unclenched his hands, revealing nails that had grown two inches in less than a minute. "Kill me," he rasped.

It was his last human speech. The light of cognizance died in those tar pit eyes, and a beast assumed the earthly shell of a man.

"I'm so sorry," John whispered as he pulled the trigger.

As he and Sally ended Paul's suffering, John worried that his own- and that of everyone else trapped in this foul room- was just beginning.


	6. Chapter 6

As the hours dragged by, Amy's wails weakened into quiet sobs. In contrast, the pain from everyone's bruises, cuts, and pulled muscles got progressively worse.

John had assessed all injuries and determined that none were life-threatening. The only challenge to their survival lurked outside the locked door. The vampires had gradually quieted down, but they could still be heard for a long time afterward, pacing in the hallway and growling softly in frustration.

"They'll stay out there until sunset," Lestrade said as he massaged his bruised shoulder. "Then they'll all go out to hunt. We should make a break for it then."

Sally nodded. "I doubt that any of them will bother waiting for us once it gets dark. They'll be too hungry."

"Sherlock will have missed us by now," Molly suggested. "He'll send help."

"Dream on, Doctor."

Amy shook her head wildly and grasped fistfuls of her hair. She kept staring at the remains of the thing that had been her boyfriend. John had dragged a piece of stained and ragged cardboard over the demolished head to prevent the sight from unhinging her further, but she continued to deteriorate.

"Hey." He sat down beside her. "Hang in there. We'll get out soon."

Her nails dug into her grimy palms. When they drew blood, he gently grabbed her wrists.

"Don't do that. They'll get infected."

"I don't fucking care!" she spat, wrenching herself free.

"Amy," John said quietly, "I know how you feel."

She sneered. "How could you possibly?"

"I lost someone too."

She stared at him. Then she sniffled and asked, "Who?"

"My girlfriend. Her name was Sarah."

Closing his eyes, John told her about Sarah's murder. Each word that resurrected the nightmare stabbed him in the heart, but he forced himself to keep talking. The girl beside him was a hair's breadth from complete hysteria, and if sharing his personal pain could help him get through to her, he'd do it.

Everyone stopped pacing or massaging sore spots and listened. When he concluded, there was a moment of sober silence. Then Sally cleared her throat.

"They killed my younger sister," she said, staring at the wall while her mind's eye saw something far worse. "Mel worked for a solicitor who was a fucking night owl. He made her work crazy hours. She stayed at the office until midnight one night, preparing for a trial the next morning. They got her when she was walking to her car."

"For me, it was my niece." Lestrade's voice turned bitter. "Fourteen years old. Bit of a rebel, always staying out late and worrying her parents. I've lost count of how many times my sister begged me to talk to her. I tried, but Moira was stubborn. They think they know it all at that age. She and some friends were hanging out in a schoolyard after dark, smoking pot, when vampires attacked. All of them were killed."

"I think I remember reading about it in the _Times_," John said. "Six teenagers, right? Bodies drained of blood? The police said they were victims of some cult."

"Not all of the police said that," Lestrade said grimly, exchanging a look with Sally. "But yes, that's the same case. I knew the truth when I actually saw a vampire in the vicinity of the schoolyard a week later, climbing the wall of a five-storey building full of council flats. It scarpered when I shone a torch on it, but when I saw those eyes and those fucking shark teeth, I knew how my niece really died. And what I had to do about it."

"I never actually lost anyone," Molly said when it was her turn. "But I did see horribly wounded bodies being brought into the morgue, each one bled dry. Like Greg said, they were assumed to be cult killings. Then one night a man started to change right in front of me during a post-mortem and I cut its head off." She shuddered and hugged her knees to her chest. "I guess watching bad horror films on the telly saved my life."

"We're going to get you to a hospital as soon as we're out of here," John told Amy, who'd calmed down as she listened to everyone talk. "It's up to you what you want to tell the doctors and the police. But a word of advice: the truth could backfire on you."

"I know." She rubbed her swollen nose with the back of her hand. "No one would ever believe any of this. And even if they did, I don't want people coming here to investigate and getting killed." Her eyes refilled with tears. "No one else needs to die like Paul did."

"Well said." John patted her shoulder. "We'll be coming back, though. And when we do, those things are going to-"

A brisk knocking on the door interrupted him.

Everyone looked at each other. The sound was controlled: not the wild pounding of hours before. Amy whimpered and cringed against John. Lestrade and Sally approached the door slowly, Sally with her gun gripped in both hands. When the knocking stopped, Lestrade called out, "Hello? Who is it?"

"It's Sherlock. Open the door."

"Oh, thank God." Lestrade hurried over and undid the bolt while John helped Amy to her feet and Molly gave Sally a smug smile. When the door swung open, Sherlock stepped into the room.

He was dressed entirely in black, having exchanged his purple shirt for a darker one that showed off the white expanse of his throat. "Good. You're all alive," he said after a quick survey. When he saw Amy as well as Paul's chilling corpse, he frowned. "I see you ran into complications. What-"

Amy's earsplitting scream drowned the rest of his words. _Shit, didn't think to warn her_, John realized frantically. He pressed one hand over the terrified girl's mouth and held her tight as she began to thrash.

"Shhhh, it's all right. His name is Sherlock. He's a vampire, but not like them. I promise."

Sherlock eyed her without pity. "They've all gone out to hunt, but some could return unexpectedly. We have to leave now. Do you need me to strike her unconscious first?"

Sally glowered. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, Freak?"

"Only if it were you, Sally."

"Enough!" Lestrade faced Amy, who shook like a spooked horse. "You need to calm down if we're to get out of here alive. Can you do that?"

She tore her stare away from Sherlock's obsidian eyes and pointed teeth and looked at the policeman. When she nodded shakily, John lowered his hand.

"How do you know you can trust him?" she whispered, digging her fingers into his arm.

"Do you trust me?"

"Y-yes."

"Then please believe me. He won't hurt you, all right? Now let's go and get you somewhere safe."

She nodded again, but kept staring at Sherlock like he was a beast that might escape its cage any minute and devour her. Sally didn't help: she planted herself between Sherlock and Amy and snapped, "You first, Freak. And just so you know, there are still bullets in my gun."

He smirked. "Enough to give me a nasty headache, I'm sure."

"Let's go," Lestrade said abruptly.

With Sherlock leading the way, they filed out of the room and moved down the hall, toward the exit. This time, no one intercepted them as they stepped out into the cool night air.

"Oh, thank God," Lestrade declared, running both hands over his face and staring at the sky as if he were beholding a miracle.

Sally rounded on Sherlock. "You took your time getting here."

"The sun only set an hour ago."

"You couldn't have sent help when you realized we were missing?"

"I did- that's why I'm here. Don't be so tedious."

Red with indignation, she opened her mouth to fire a return shot when Sherlock suddenly stiffened. His head shot back and forth and he sniffed the air like a bloodhound seeking a scent.

"What is it?" Molly whispered.

Amy pressed closer to John, who gripped his automatic tightly.

"Everyone back inside," Sherlock ordered. "We have company."

No sooner had he spoken when three vampires- two men and a woman, all of them with bloody teeth and claws- stepped around the side of the building, as graceful and vicious as jungle cats. John figured that they had found victims soon after heading out, and were returning early.

_Worst fucking timing ever._

The vampires, however, seemed more interested in Sherlock. They stared at him, sniffed loudly and shifted uneasily. One of them- who had been a muscular six-footer in life- finally stepped forward, teeth bared, and made noises resembling guttural speech. Sherlock blocked its path to his human companions and responded with identical intonations, sounding like a vampire for the first time since John had met him.

John felt Amy collapse against him. He held her up with one arm around her waist and continued to stare at the unfolding drama. He could hear the others backing slowly into the warehouse, but made no move to join them.

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Take Amy and get her inside." As he handed her over to Lestrade, he added, "I need to be able to shoot straight."

Which was true. But John also didn't want to leave Sherlock to face the newcomers alone. He knew that if the creatures attacked en masse, his automatic wouldn't be able to do much damage before he was overcome, but something (The bravery of the soldier? Loyalty?) refused to let him desert Sherlock.

The huge male vampire threw its grotesque head back and howled, scarlet drool dripping from its jaws. The other two joined in the nightmare chorus, turning John's blood to ice. Sherlock answered with a shrill screech of his own before glancing back.

"John," he rasped, "get inside before-"

He had no time to finish before the big vampire slammed him to the ground, its teeth buried in his shoulder and murder in its eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock kicked his attacker off and jumped up, but not before his right shoulder had been pulverized. Blood and raw tendon peeked through the tear in his jacket, and his right arm no longer moved as fluidly as his left. Ignoring the agony he surely felt, he lunged at the huge vampire with such force that both of them landed heavily against the warehouse wall, knocking bricks loose.

Strangely, the other two creatures did not rush for the humans while Sherlock was engaged. They danced about like spirited dogs anticipating dinner and cast covetous stares at their prospective prey, but remained in place. John had the impression that they were waiting for a signal or event before the killing began.

Molly peered over his shoulder. "Maybe they're waiting for their mate to kill Sherlock first," she whispered.

John didn't see how things could end any other way. Sherlock's incomplete transformation from human to vampire had left him with smaller teeth and claws and, in all probability, comparatively reduced strength. "There's no way he can win," the doctor whispered, heart sinking. "He's trying to buy us time to escape."

His grip on the automatic tightened, although the gesture was futile. The gun didn't have enough bullets to save himself, let alone Sherlock. But he couldn't flee, not until he'd done all he could.

Molly tapped frantically into her phone. Behind her, Sally and Lestrade (who still carried Amy) lingered in the doorway, poised to bolt inside and shut the door if the other two vampires suddenly attacked or Sherlock lost- whichever happened first.

The fighters broke away from each other and circled, spitting and snarling like pit bulls. Both were torn, bloodied, and refusing to yield, even though Sherlock's right arm now dangled and the left side of his opponent's face was clean of flesh. When the large male lunged again, Sherlock dodged and lashed out with his left fist. Claws ripped loudly through throat muscle and a crimson waterfall poured over the male's chest, soiling an already-filthy T-shirt even further. When the creature reeled, Sherlock tackled it again, hurling both of them to the ground.

The watching vampires stomped their feet and howled. John instinctively raised his automatic, catching the female's eye. It hissed at him and tensed as if preparing to spring.

"John, wait!" Lestrade called. "I think Molly's right. That big fucker is some kind of alpha. The others won't do anything until the contest is settled. Unless you get involved."

Contest. With five human lives as the prize. John shuddered but lowered his weapon. The she-vampire relaxed, growling.

Sherlock and the male were rolling around on the rubbish-littered ground, tearing at each other with teeth and claws. When they broke apart a second time, John saw that Sherlock had gotten the worst of it: his dark curls were matted with blood and red gashes marked his white skin. His head bobbed and he swayed as if drunk or brain-damaged.

_He's done for_, John realized with horror.

Sherlock finally fell to his knees, blood and drool stringing from his parted lips. Molly, who was clutching her phone and gasping their location to someone from Mycroft's office, screamed. Lestrade swore.

"Let's get inside and bolt the door!" Sally hissed. "Before they charge."

The alpha vampire screeched in a decidedly triumphant note. Then it reached for Sherlock's head to administer the coup de grace and formally end the battle.

John took aim.

Sherlock moved so quickly that John didn't realize what had happened until it was all over. One moment he was kneeling in the dirt, awaiting execution. The next he was on his feet, grasping his former opponent's severed head in his left fist and watching the body collapse.

The two remaining vampires immediately stopped howling and assumed watchful, wary expressions. After tossing the head aside Sherlock faced them, bared his teeth, and spoke in the same throaty dialect he'd used before. Heads bowed, they took several backward steps before fleeing into the night.

John's jaw dropped. "Wh-what the fuck just happened?"

Sherlock turned, moving slowly and unsteadily. "Vampires have a pack instinct, John. Like wolves. When two or more are together, one is automatically the leader. I issued a challenge. The leader of the trio accepted. It had no choice, really. To refuse would have been akin to admitting defeat."

Molly and Lestrade had been right. They had all been regarded as Sherlock's property –his _prey_- and therefore untouchable until he had been vanquished. John shivered and pocketed his gun.

"I thought you had given up…. Were you shamming?"

"Mostly," Sherlock replied. "But it was necessary. When you make an opponent believe that they've won before they actually have, their defeat is assured." He regarded John thoughtfully. "You didn't run inside or even stand in the doorway with everyone else. Why? I'm assuming you're not suicidal."

"I couldn't." John swallowed. "I couldn't just leave you to be killed."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, but John saw a ghost of a smile cross his bloody lips. "I'm flattered by your loyalty, John, but if I'd been killed, you'd have died a split second later. They'd have gotten you before you could turn to run. Please don't do anything so foolhardy again. You're badly needed in this war."

John knew he was right, but couldn't resist a weak comeback. "You're asking a soldier to play it safe?"

"I'm sure the request is useless, but yes."

Sally stepped out of the doorway. "We need to leave now. Before more uglies show up."

"She's right." Lestrade emerged from the shadows, leading a conscious but dazed Amy. "The car is three blocks away. Let's go."

"Right." John eyed Sherlock's injuries. "I'm presuming you can walk, but _Christ_, you're a sight."

Sherlock glanced at his mangled shoulder and grimaced. "I may not be living, but I can still suffer. I must rejuvenate soon, or the injuries will cripple me permanently." He gave John a pained smile. "Tonight shall be your inaugural lesson in vampire physiology."

Sherlock led the way toward the street, his head whipping from side to side as he scanned adjacent buildings and sniffed the air for any sign of incoming invaders. When they reached the car, Molly took a bright orange blanket from the boot and handed it to Sherlock, who wrapped himself in it to prevent blood from staining the seats. Sally drove while Lestrade sat up front with Amy. Sherlock, John, and Molly crowded into the back.

"Let's drop you three off at Baker Street," Lestrade told them, "and Sally and I will take Amy to A&E."

John nodded and Molly said, "I'm texting Mycroft to let him know that we made it out safely but Sherlock is injured."

Sherlock, who was leaning groggily against John, was instantly alert. "Don't you dare tell him I've been hurt!" he snapped. "Putting up with him will NOT be conducive to my recovery."

The young pathologist seemed to shrink several inches. "Ok," she replied meekly. "I'll just tell him we're all fine."

"Why don't you want your brother to know you've been hurt?" John asked, confused.

"It's complicated," Sherlock replied tersely before relaxing again. "Anyhow, I'm fine. I just need to rejuvenate."

John, who was on difficult terms with his sister Harry, didn't pursue it.

By the time they reached Baker Street, Sherlock was in obvious pain. He could get out of the car only with assistance, and his legs wobbled so badly when crossing the pavement that he stumbled and nearly fell. John caught him around the waist.

"Easy now."

"I'm _fine_," Sherlock snapped, although he looked anything but.

"I'm a doctor, remember? I know when someone's lying to me about their pain. You're not fine."

Lestrade rolled down the window. "Can you get him inside all right, John?"

"I can get myself inside, thank you very much!" Sherlock grumbled. But when John put an arm around his shoulders and guided him toward the doorway of 221B, he did not protest.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed when she opened the door. "What happened?"

"Nothing a special bath won't cure," Molly assured her.

"Oh." The landlady nodded knowingly. "Gotten yourself in another fight then, have you, Sherlock?"

"No- I decided to experiment on myself instead of a cadaver."

"Mind your manners, young man. I'm your landlady, not your punching bag."

Molly slid past her and hurried up the stairs while John assisted Sherlock inside. "I'll start the bath," she called over her shoulder.

"Can you make it up the stairs?" John asked Sherlock.

"If I can't, what will you do?" was the irritable response. "Carry me like a virgin bride?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Sherlock, there's no need to be rude. Dr. Watson, I'll make up a tea tray for you and Molly. You look famished."

"Thanks," John said gratefully.

Since Sherlock was averse to being carried, they ascended the stairs at a glacier's pace. John was surprised at his new friend's fragility. To him, vampires were tireless killing machines: Sherlock looked so vulnerable and human huddled in the orange blanket and leaning on him for support.

"Have you been hurt like this before?" he asked

"Once, yes."

"What happened?"

"I don't remember. I deleted the details."

John wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "You what?"

"I deleted it. John, I only retain information that's useful to me. It's a habit that made me a successful consulting detective when I was alive. Now I'm dead, and Lestrade still comes to me with cases. What does that tell you?"

"That he can never tell his boss where he gets his information?"

Sherlock chuckled. It was a deep, pleasant sound. "Obviously."

By the time they reached the landing, the bath was going full blast. Molly appeared in the flat's doorway.

"Almost enough water," she announced. "This way."

John, with Sherlock in tow, followed her into a small bathroom with tiled flooring, an old claw foot tub, and an ancient sink with brass taps and faucet. To John's surprise, no humidity dampened the wall tiles or made the air heavier. Nor did the water steam.

"Is that a cold bath?"

"Yes." Molly shut off the faucets. "Put him in the water. I'll be back in a few."

She breezed into the corridor, closing the door behind her.

John took the bloodied blanket off Sherlock's shoulders and tossed it aside. "Do you need me to help you with your clothes?"

"Unfortunately," the vampire grimaced. "My right arm is useless and my muscles are already stiffening."

"Right. Let's get you sorted then. Just be patient: I'll be asking you a million questions."

He eased Sherlock's jacket off and threw the ruined garment on top of the blanket. The shredded white shirt followed. When he surveyed the vampire's naked torso, John's lips parted in shock. The shoulder wound looked even more hideous under the overhead light: the tendons were a mess and a hint of bone could be seen. Bites and claw marks covered his chest and arms, and a purple bruise extended from below his left nipple all the way to the waistband of his trousers.

"My God, Sherlock." John quickly collected himself. "Sorry, I've just never encountered anyone with injuries like these. Anyone who could walk and talk afterward, I mean."

Black eyes hollowed out by growing blue circles stared back at him. "I'm aware that I look repulsive."

"No- it's all right." John took a deep breath before divesting Sherlock of his trousers, pants, and footwear.

He'd never seen a naked vampire before, let alone one who managed to look beautiful even whilst covered with bruises and dried blood. Sherlock's body was lightly muscled and lean without being scrawny: it was the sort of physique that deserved to be immortalized in marble at the Louvre. Anatomically he was flawless: women must have fawned over him when he was alive.

John realized he was staring when Sherlock cleared his throat.

"If it's not too much trouble, I require assistance getting into the water."

"Right. Yes. Of course." Blushing, John took Sherlock by the left arm and guided him forward until his knees bumped against the tub's side. Then he lifted the tall vampire in his arms, ignoring the blood that soaked into his shirt, and lowered him into the icy water.

"Ah," Sherlock sighed as he slowly reclined and rested his head against the tub's rim. "This is lovely."

"Cold heals you?"

"Not the cold alone."

The door opened then and Molly entered, carrying a yellow plastic jug filled with a dark substance. When she removed the lid, John recognized the contents as blood.

"You're going to pour that in the water?"

"Yes. When combined with cold temperatures, a surface application of blood heals an injured vampire." She bent over the tub and slowly poured. "It's a trick that Sherlock discovered."

Sherlock opened one eye to watch the precious fluid mingle with the water. "I can't take total credit: a sixteenth century Hungarian countess used to bathe in blood to rejuvenate her skin and keep it looking young. But I did discover that blood reverses skin and muscle damage in vampires. Doesn't do anything for broken bones, though. Those have to be treated the usual way. Thank God my new flatmate is a doctor."

John was fascinated. He sat on the lowered toilet seat and watched the water, now pale red, lap against the sides of the tub and leave a scarlet ring on the enamel.

"How long do you have to soak?"

"Until I look and feel better, obviously."

Molly was gazing into the tub too, but her vacant, dreamlike expression suggested that she was riveted by more than just the water.

"You really should take a picture and drool over it in private," Sherlock chided her. "Your worship of my physique is quite distracting."

She flushed. "Um, sorry. I guess I'm being rather rude." Clutching the now-empty jug, Molly exited the room backwards. "I'll be going now. I'll text you tomorrow to see how you're doing."

Then she was gone.

John shook his head. "Are you always this charming?"

"I'm merely being kind. She's interested. I'm not." Sherlock flexed his legs. "Ah, I'm limbering up already. Another couple of hours should take care of the open wounds. Then a cold shower to wash it all off."

He plunged his head under the water to loosen the caked blood and dirt. When he resurfaced and smoothed his hair back, his movements were so graceful and unintentionally seductive that John's stomach muscles tightened.

John had been with men before, during those wild university days when experimenting was the rule. But not since. No man had ever tempted him enough to weaken his ardent love of women. Until now.

Sherlock's being a vampire should have put him completely beyond the doctor's range of possibilities, but now, watching him bathe in the elixir of life, John realized that Molly Hooper was not the only one interested.


	8. Chapter 8

Three hours later, John was beholding the aftermath of a miracle.

All of Sherlock's injuries, even the extensive shoulder wound, had closed up and healed. Pale pink blotches that looked obscene against his white skin marked the former damage sites, but Sherlock claimed that they would disappear by morning.

"I have a theory that vampires destroyed by immolation could potentially be revived by soaking the remains in blood," he declared as he stood before his bedroom mirror, combing his hair. He was naked except for a pair of pale blue pyjama bottoms that rode low on his slim hips. "I can't imagine a scenario in which I'd want to test it, though."

John, who was sitting in Sherlock's desk chair, couldn't stop staring at that restored physique. Tissue damage that would have entailed weeks of recovery time for a human being had self-repaired before his eyes. It had been like watching a time-lapsed medical video replayed at high speed. At first he wished that Mike Stamford had been there to see it. Then he remembered that he still had to tell Mike that his new flatmate was a vampire. That was a conversation he wasn't in a hurry to have.

Trying to make conversation, John commented, "So Molly… she really does fancy you. Would it even be possible for you and her to… well, you know."

"No," Sherlock said abruptly.

"Vampires don't have girlfriends, then?" John hesitated before adding, "Or boyfriends?"

"Not human ones."

"No, I suppose not. No playing with the food, right?"

The vampire's mouth quirked in a crooked grin. "That's quite funny, John. But also true."

"You said vampires don't have human companions," John said slowly. "But they bond with each other?"

"They indulge in non-procreative mating. The word 'bonding' implies a romantic or emotional attachment that they're incapable of feeling." Sherlock put the comb down on his bureau and turned around, head cocked. "You seem quite fascinated by the sexual proclivities of the undead."

John felt his cheeks redden. "I was merely wondering. What of it?"

Sherlock shifted from one bare foot to the other. He actually looked uncomfortable. "John, there's something you should know about me. Even when I was alive, I was married to my work. I hadn't the time or inclination to pursue a romantic alliance. It's a preference that survived my death. You're interesting company and I rather enjoy talking to you, but I'm not interested in-."

"Wait a minute." John felt his cheeks burn. "Who says I'm trying to chat you up?"

"You find me attractive." Sherlock stepped toward him, making no attempt to cover his partial nudity. "When you were assisting me with the regenerative bath, your pupils dilated intermittently, you experienced a marked degree of difficulty swallowing, and I could detect a growing tumescence-"

"All right! Enough!" John raised his hands, mortified. "Good God! I admit it. Sherlock, I swear I'm not gay. You know I had a girlfriend. But yes, I had a reaction to you that I'm still trying to understand. I'm presuming it will pass. You're good-looking, but it's not as if I haven't seen attractive men naked before. As a doctor, I mean."

Sherlock looked solemn. "I'm sorry if I disappointed you. But you were rather obvious in your admiration, and I don't want to spoil what I hope will be an invigorating friendship."

"It's… it's all right." John found his voice. "Christ, you're something."

Sherlock arched one dark eyebrow. "Something good or something annoying? I'm usually called the latter."

"Something extraordinary."

The vampire looked pleased. John stared at his face and tried to picture it with the bright grey eyes he'd seen in the photo on the mantel, instead of the cavernous black ones that returned his gaze now. _That _Sherlock Holmes had been destined to grow old and grey. This one had skin that would never wrinkle, and hair that would be glossy and dark for as long as he existed.

"Have you ever thought about it?" John asked suddenly.

"I think about a lot of things. Be specific."

"That unless you're horribly unlucky, you're going to live forever. Everyone you know now…. Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, your brother…. One day you'll watch them all die and leave you behind."

"Is there any benefit to thinking about things like that, John?"

"No, not really, but-"

"Then you have your answer. It's a pointless fancy and serves no purpose. When I was alive, people sometimes asked me if I was afraid to die. Anticipating and fearing the inevitable is a fool's game. " Sherlock turned away abruptly, pulled a grey T-shirt out of a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, and hauled it on. "Are you tired?"

"No."

"Good. I'm in the mood to think out loud, and you're a very good receptor. Let's go to the living room. Mrs. Hudson left you a tray."

John followed Sherlock out of the room. The T-shirt and pyjama bottoms made Sherlock look touchingly human. His still-damp hair curled around his face and neck, adding to the effect.

The tray was sitting on a table positioned between the two windows overlooking Baker Street. While John eagerly tackled the tuna sandwiches and still-warm vegetable soup, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, feet crossed at the ankles and hands resting on his abdomen. "I miss my nicotine patches," he griped.

"Sorry?"

"When I was alive, I used to put on three at a time. They helped me think." Sherlock closed his eyes. "They don't work on me now, which is frustrating."

"Are you thinking about something in particular?"

"Someone in particular, yes. Moriarty. I still don't know where he is in London, which makes it difficult to plan an offensive."

John put his cup of lukewarm tea down. "Tell me more about these vampire Elders."

Sherlock's eyes remained closed, but a discernible excitement coursed through him. "One of the most fascinating things about becoming a vampire is the inheritance of a racial memory."

"I'm sorry- a what?"

"Have you ever experienced déjà vu?"

John wasn't sure what this had to do with his question. "Yes. Why?"

"Racial memory in the vampire species is like that. When I regained consciousness after the change, I was still myself, obviously, but I _knew_ things that I'd never experienced firsthand. Foremost in my new knowledge was the vampire hierarchy, which the Elders dominate." His fingers drummed eagerly on his flat abdomen. "They're an evolved version of the species, like I told you. They appear even more human than I do. I've never seen one, but I know that when they hunt, they enjoy choosing their prey in public locations. So many silly fools chat up that lovely woman or handsome man at a club, never knowing that they're soon to be dinner."

John, who had done his fair share of bar pickups before meeting Sarah, suddenly felt queasy.

"Although their appearance and thought processes are decidedly human in scope, Elders have no conscience whatsoever," Sherlock continued. "Take Moriarty, for instance. He has had several day walkers doing his bidding over the centuries, and none of them suspected that he had no intention of fulfilling his end of the bargain."

"What's a day walker?"

Sherlock opened one eye and cast it in his direction. The gesture was a small one, but oozed with a mixture of amusement and condescension. "How much _do_ you know about vampires, really?"

John was annoyed. "I only ever killed them, Sherlock. I wasn't interested in their bloody habits."

"Interesting choice of words. Anyway, a day walker is a human who willingly serves vampires. Some of them suffer from terminal illnesses; all feel alienated from their fellow man. Elders like Moriarty, who haven't lost their ability to speak the human languages, get these people to conduct activities that must be done during the day. In exchange, they promise the day walkers eternal life." Sherlock smirked before adding, "Morons."

"A human being must be pretty desperate if they make deals with vampires."

"They are. That's why they're so easy to manipulate. Oh, sometimes the Elders complete their end of the bargain, especially when prolific hunters like yourself appear. The population must not be depleted too rapidly. But I have it on good authority that Moriarty has not turned a human in over a hundred years."

John shook his head. "And none of them ever catch on?"

"How could they? Moriarty has only one day walker at a time. That way there's no suspicion or rebellion when they're disposed of."

"I wonder who his current day walker is."

"So do I. Elders need their human servants more than they care to admit. Since they refuse to live in regular vampire nests and most rental agents don't have evening hours, day walkers typically arrange their masters' living quarters and take care of troublesome details like electricity bills and property taxes. They know more about the Elder's plans and movements than other vampires do."

"What do the other Elders think about Moriarty's actions?" John wondered. "Aren't they worried that his grandiose schemes of enslaving humanity are just a little impossible and may backfire? Vampires are big bad monsters who rule the night, but the daylight hours? Those belong to mankind, and we're a species that wouldn't take kindly to captivity."

"I wonder about that too," Sherlock admitted. "But there's been no sign of any attempt to interfere. Perhaps they're hoping that his plan will work."

"It's not going to." John's expression was grim. "I've been to war before. I'm not afraid to go back."

"I know. And that's why I'm glad you're here."

* * *

When John opened his eyes the following morning, he couldn't recall the last time he'd slept so well.

It wasn't that the mattress was extra-comfortable or the room first-rate, although both were superior to his Glasgow accommodations. As John threw the blankets back and sat up, he realized that last night had been the first time since Sarah died that he'd felt safe in bed.

Sherlock had to be the reason why. There was no need for John to sleep with one eye open when a benign vampire was watching over him all night. Surprised but grateful, he got up and stretched. He was retrieving his shaving kit from the small bureau when Sherlock called to him, sounding excited.

"John! Come down here quickly!"

Although layers of thick fabric covered the room's windows, John knew that it was daylight outside, so they couldn't be under vampire attack. Not bothering to pull on anything over his T-shirt and boxers, he hurried down the small flight of steps that led to the main flat.

Sherlock, who had put on a pearl grey shirt and black trousers, was standing in front of the table that doubled as a computer desk, watching a news video on his laptop. "Look at this," he said grimly, clicking on the replay icon.

A young female presenter with the neat appearance and chirpy eagerness of a recent uni graduate stood in front of a hospital A&E entrance. In the background, uniformed police officers milled around and anxious-looking patients and staff clustered in small groups.

"_Police and spokespeople for University College Hospital have confirmed that at six o'clock this morning, a young woman was shot and killed as she was leaving the premises. Amy Murphy came to the A&E Department late last night to be treated for assault-related injuries."_

A close-up of a driver's license photo appeared onscreen. John's heart sank when he recognized the girl they had rescued from the nest.

"_Police say that they are not certain whether or not the homicide is connected to the original assault."_

The scene changed. Now the presenter was interviewing a Scotland Yard representative who said that Amy had been walking along Gower Street en route to the Euston Square station when the driver of a dark-coloured van fired two bullets into her. She had been killed instantly. The news video concluded with a general plea for anyone with information to contact the police immediately.

Sherlock sat down in his favourite armchair and rested his chin on his joined fingertips. He was clearly deep in thought. John, feeling sick, sank into the other chair and exclaimed, "God, why?"

"You know why."

"She was killed because she made it out of a vampire nest alive."

"And said something about it, which brought her to Moriarty's attention."

John stared at him. "Moriarty? How can you be sure?"

"Look at the facts, John. She was shot after sunrise. A day walker did this. Only an Elder would have a day walker." Sherlock actually smiled. "I believe that Moriarty has just made his first mistake."

"Sherlock, a girl has just been murdered and you're _smiling_?"

"Would frowning bring her back?"

"No. But-"

"Then let me enjoy a triumph." Sherlock jumped up and glanced on the clock on the mantel. "It's nine-thirty. Lestrade will be at his office: I shall ask him to get us the police report. As soon as he provides us with the names of the doctors and other staff who treated Amy, I need you to go to University College Hospital and interview them. Lestrade will ensure that you get access."

John wanted to yell at him. A young woman whom he had personally helped carry to safety mere hours before was dead. Although dealing with death was part and parcel of being a doctor, John had never been able to accept it coldly and clinically. Then he realized that Sherlock's attitude, although callous, was not malicious. The vampire was more focused on preventing additional murders than wailing over spilled blood. Logically, it made sense.

He wondered whether caring too much was a good thing.

John sighed and rose to go and get dressed. As he prepared for his first assignment as day walker to Sherlock Holmes, he wondered if there would ever be an exception to the vampire's logic-driven outlook. Would there ever be something –or someone- that would finally make him care?


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to akuma-river, ceen, RoxanHolmes, KingHerod, and dankangel1211. You guys are the best! Special love to my amazing beta, **chasingriver**.

* * *

John was amazed at the reception he received from the University College Hospital representatives. They were so deferential that one would have thought he was the Queen's physician dropping by for an unofficial inspection. A pretty administrative assistant brought him a cup of tea and biscuits with the Harrods imprint in their chocolate surface while he sat in an over-polished meeting room and waited to meet Dr. Sebastian Moran.

He sent Sherlock a text.

_Waiting to interview the doctor who treated Amy at A&E. JW_

Sherlock responded immediately.

_Take plenty of notes if your memory isn't perfect. How are you enjoying the tea and Harrods biscuits? SH_

John nearly choked on his mouthful of organic Earl Grey.

_How could you possibly know about those? JW_

_Oh, no need to thank me. Thank Mycroft. He arrived from Liverpool an hour ago and made some calls to ensure that you receive full cooperation. He will pick you up when the interview concludes. Just text me when you're finished. SH_

Confused, John typed back, _What's your brother got to do with biscuits from Harrods? JW_

_A lot. Didn't you notice his waistline when you met him? SH_

"Dr. Watson?"

John put down his phone and looked up.

A man his own age stood in the meeting room doorway, eying him speculatively and, John thought, a little warily.

"Yes." John pushed his chair away from the table and stood.

The man approached, hand extended. "I'm Sebastian Moran."

Dr. Moran was at least six feet tall, had the muscular physique of an amateur athlete, and wore his sandy blonde hair so short that the skin peeked through. It was definitely a military-style cut. His measured stride and crisp vocal delivery were also army issue.

John gripped his hand firmly. "Please. Call me John. If you don't mind my asking, are you ex-military?"

"Yes. I've been out for two years now."

"What branch were you with?"

"RAMC."

John was surprised. The Royal Army Medical Corps was not a fighting branch of the British Army, and Sebastian Moran had the tense, restless aura of a man constantly seeking action.

Seeking to draw him out, John produced his military identification. "I served in Afghanistan. With the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

Moran peered at the credentials. "Captain, eh? I was a Lieutenant-Colonel when I left." He pulled out one of the chairs and sat. "My chief says you want to talk to me about the girl who was shot this morning. Amy Murphy."

"That's right." John sat too and delivered the story he and Sherlock had rehearsed. "I'm assisting the family with their private inquiry. We're aware that some people brought Amy here last night for emergency medical treatment."

"That's correct." Moran winced as if in pain and rubbed his left eye. "John, would you mind if I turned off the light? I feel a headache coming on."

"By all means." John watched him get up, flip the switch, and plunge the room into semi-dimness. "I imagine you've had a rough morning, what with the murder and the police and all."

Moran sat back down. "Yes, it's been difficult, but I get migraines a lot anyway. When you work at a hospital with a busy A&E, it comes with the territory: double shifts, difficult patients, colleagues who love skinning your last nerve with a broken scalpel."

John offered a smile of commiseration. "I remember."

"About Amy Murphy." Now that the lights were out, Moran seemed comfortable enough to proceed. "Two off-duty police officers brought her into A&E just before eight last night. They found her wandering around the edges of a dodgy area in Wapping. She'd been assaulted –not sexually- and had bruises and abrasions all over her body. Most were minor, although she had a cut on her thigh that required stitches and antibiotic treatment."

John glanced at the admission report that the hospital administration provided. "It says here that one of your colleagues from Psychiatry wanted to give her a mental health evaluation."

"She went into hysterics when another patient came in: an anaemic man with dangerously low iron levels, who looked whiter than Jack Frost. She screamed something about him being a vampire coming to take her back. The nurses managed to reassure her, but she nearly required sedation."

John feigned incredulity. "She was implying that a vampire inflicted her injuries?"

"That's what it sounded like. But when she calmed down enough for me to examine and assess her, she said she didn't know why she'd blurted such rubbish. I convinced Dr. Lambert that Psych did not have to get involved."

John took notes. "What time was she discharged?"

"After midnight. But here's where the plot thickens." Moran crossed his arms on the table and leaned toward John. "She stayed in the hospital for nearly six more hours. The officers who brought her in gave her some money, and she spent a lot of it at the coffee machine. She wouldn't leave until daylight."

"Maybe she wanted to wait until the Tube started running?"

"Probably. But she certainly seemed to be frightened of someone or something. She kept pacing through the waiting area, watching the windows." Moran shook his head, and then hissed as if the movement hurt. "Sorry. Headache's getting bad."

John made a sympathetic noise. "Well, you're in the right place to get some painkillers."

"Yeah, I'll probably have to go to the dispensary before leaving."

"Did you see Amy leave?"

"No. I was finishing up with a patient."

"One last question. Where were you when she was shot?"

Moran's eyes narrowed but he answered the question without hesitating. "On my way to the hospital coffee shop to have a bite before going off shift."

John wrote that down. He'd already spoken to the nurses and receptionist who'd dealt with Amy, and this was his last interview. He suspected that Sherlock would be disappointed that no obvious connection to Moriarty had been made at the hospital.

"That's all for now, Sebastian," he said, stuffing his notebook and pen in his coat packet. "Would you like me to walk with you down to the dispensary? You're looking worse."

Moran, whose face had gone a bilious shade of green, said, "No, I can make it. God damn these things. They're getting worse. Stomach's off right now too, so I think I'll get a sumatriptan injection. That should sort me."

They parted outside the meeting room. Moran went to seek treatment for his migraine, keeping his gait soldier-steady despite the pain, and John rode the lift down to the main level. As he headed for the main exit, he sent a text to Sherlock.

_Just finished interviewing Dr. Moran. Seems fine. Couldn't detect anything suspicious about staff conduct. JW_

Sherlock replied with his usual speed and sarcasm.

_I hope your notes were detailed, because you're obviously missing something. No matter. It's what I'm here for. To do the thinking. SH _

The sliding glass doors parted for John, who stepped out into the brilliant morning, tapping fiercely on his mobile.

_Are you always this modest? JW_

_Not really. Lestrade used to call me an arrogant sod when I was alive. I believe I've improved. Where are you? SH_

_Outside the main entrance. JW_

_Stay there. Mycroft will arrive shortly. He's been annoying me for the past hour, so detain him as long as you like. Ask for a tour of London. SH_

No sooner had John read this message when a silver Bentley with tinted windows pulled up. The rear passenger window rolled down and a pale young man peered out at John.

"Dr. John Watson?"

"Yes." John pocketed the phone.

"We've been sent to pick you up."

"Right. Sherlock said you were coming." Presuming that Mycroft was in the front seat, John stepped toward the car when the young man opened his door.

He didn't expect what happened next. The man grabbed him by the arm and threw him facedown on the floor before slamming the door shut. John was so winded that he was only dimly aware of the Bentley moving again. Two voices- one tense and frightened, the other relaxed and marked by an Irish lilt- argued in the darkness over his head.

"There. I did what you wanted," the pale youth pleaded. "Now please let me go."

"Be happy to, Davey-boy," the Irish passenger replied cheerily. "You've done a good job."

A sickening crack pierced the gloom. John felt something warm, heavy, and obviously human fall across his legs before he was seized by the collar of his coat and yanked off the floor into a slumped position on the leather seat.

"There now. This is much more cosy, Johnny. Davey was so irritating."

Slowly, painfully, John raised his head and stared at the man next to him.

The abductor was in his early to mid-thirties and so pale that his skin seemed to glow beneath the surface. His heart-shaped face managed to look mischievous and menacing at the same time. Fine black hair was combed neatly against his skull, and he had dark eyes almost as deep and vacuous as Sherlock's. An expensive looking suit covered a rather small frame, so John took a chance and lashed out with his right fist.

The Irishman caught his wrist easily and applied a pressure so severe that John cried out. "I'll let go if you agree to stop being naughty," the man crooned over the escalating yells of pain.

John could only nod. His tormentor let go and gave him a few seconds to get his voice back. Then the man said, "There. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable. I would have hated to get your blood or brains on this suit." He fondled the lapel proudly. "It's Westwood."

"Who are you?" John frantically massaged his wrist. "What do you want?"

"My name is James Moriarty, but feel free to call me Jim. And what I want is to know more about your connection to an annoying midge named Sherlock Holmes."

Whenever he had confronted vampires in the past, John had been afraid, but it was a controlled fear that let him know when to fight and when to run. Sitting barely two feet away from James Moriarty, a vampire Elder intent on turning humans into cattle, he was seized by a paralysing terror that threatened to make him piss all over the leather seat.

"What's the matter, Johnny-boy? Can't talk? Am I really that repulsive?"

Moriarty's glib sadism jolted the ex-soldier out of his horror-induced stasis.

"I could think of more fitting descriptions," he rasped.

"I should hope so," Moriarty pouted. "It takes effort to look this young. A lot of humans were harmed in the making of this face. "

He beamed, flashing white teeth that were even blunter than Sherlock's. Now that he had adjusted to the gloom, John noticed that the vampire's eyes, although dominated by huge black pupils, had whites. Sherlock had been right: Elders really could pass for human. Even the gravelly undertone that accompanied vampire speech was missing. James Moriarty looked like a brash young business executive whose idea of taking over the world might have been cornering global financial markets, not enslaving its inhabitants.

The car rolled over a bump, causing the body on the floor to roll against John's leg. He started down at it and breathed, "Jesus."

"Is he bothering you?" Moriarty purred. "I picked him up on my way here. He followed my instructions nicely, but I only keep one pet at a time, so he had to go once he served his purpose."

John knew he was going to die. Moriarty wanted information about Sherlock, and the fate of the man on the floor proved that it didn't matter whether he gave in or refused. He now had a shelf life. Instead of panicking and pleading, John felt an eerie serenity set in.

"You want to know about Sherlock Holmes? Fine. He's got a plan that's going to make your pretty face look like tobacco ash. And I'll never tell you what it is, so let's get this over with."

Having spoken his piece, John prepared himself for the execution that would surely follow. To his surprise, Moriarty laughed.

"Oh, Johnny, what is it with soldiers and wanting to die a hero? You've got it all wrong. Except the killing part. That will definitely happen. But not the way you seem to think." Moriarty leaned toward him, grinning like a hyena. "If you tell me what I want to know, I snap your neck. Quick and clean, like Davey there. If you don't, I bring you back to my humble abode, make you into a vampire, and turn you loose on the human population as soon as darkness falls. You'll technically be dead, and thanks to you, so will a lot of people by morning. So what will it be? You have ten seconds to decide."

Dread sliced through John's resignation, but he snarled, "You haven't turned a human in over a hundred years! You even kill your own day walkers. Is that who's driving this car? Some poor bastard who thinks he's going to live forever if he wipes your arse for you?"

Moriarty huffed, but John saw genuine anger flare in his eyes. "Someone's been talking about me, I see."

The Bentley lurched to a sudden stop, accompanied by the scream of tortured brakes and a jolt that sent John tumbling on top of the cooling corpse. Moriarty grabbed the door handle for balance and pressed a switch on the solid black divider between the front and rear sections of the car.

"I know you've got a brain tumour," he shouted into a small wire-mesh circle next to the switch. "But it shouldn't be affecting your driving ability yet!"

A distorted male voice filtered through a speaker system. "Sir, we're surrounded!"

"What?!" the vampire bellowed.

People were running toward the car, shouting. John heard an electronic beep before the passenger side door was flung open, sending a narrow slice of sunlight into the car's interior. Moriarty roared like a caged lion and pressed himself against the other door to avoid the solar poison.

John felt a large hand close around his upper arm and pull him toward sunlight and fresh air. "Dr. Watson, get out now!"

Recognizing the commanding voice of Mycroft Holmes, hope surged through him and he scrambled to obey.

John didn't see Moriarty lunge forward, neatly avoiding the beam of light. But he did hear a shout of alarm when powerful –and lethal- teeth descended on Mycroft's arm.


	10. Chapter 10

John vaulted out of the car, ignoring the pain in his hands and knees as he landed on the pavement. Hearing Mycroft exclaim, he leaped up and spun around, the sunlight shielding him like a suit of armour.

Moriarty's teeth were digging into his victim's left forearm with such force that his jaw muscles shook. But to John's amazement, no blood gushed from the tears in the expensive coat. "Kevlar body armour, you rabid fool," Mycroft grunted before raising his other gloved fist and punching his assailant between the eyes. When Moriarty released him with an enraged howl and dove deeper into the car's protective shadows, Mycroft stepped back, grabbed the ultraviolet weapon holstered at his hip and aimed.

The vampire Elder's ferocious glower disappeared and he smiled. "Not going to let you kill me today, boys, sorry," he drawled. Then he hurled the body of his murdered hostage out of the car with such force that Mycroft and his team were knocked down like bowling pins. Taking advantage of the distraction, the vampire reached out and grabbed the door's handle, grimacing as the sun's rays scorched his hand. "You'll be hearing from me, Johnny-boy!" he hissed before slamming the door shut.

The Bentley's engine roared back to life and the car surged forward, crashing into the government sedan blocking it. Both vehicles jumped the curb and slammed against a storage facility's street front with a loud metallic crunch. Glass flew everywhere and the acrid smell of burned tires and spilled petrol scorched the air.

Mycroft's eight-man team surrounded the wreckage, weapons drawn. John rushed toward the elder Holmes. "Moriarty," he gasped.

"What?"

"That- that's Moriarty in there."

Mycroft didn't hesitate. "Immolate the vehicle!" he shouted.

A husky young man opened the boot of a second sedan and took out a L2A1 ILAW rocket launcher. Mycroft grabbed John's arm and joined the rest of his people in backing a safe distance away. The former army doctor didn't need any encouragement: he'd seen the weapon used in Afghanistan and knew it had a devastating back blast when fired.

"You're going to tell me everything afterward," the elder Holmes ordered.

John could only nod as he watched the man aim the rocket launcher. He wasn't sure where they were, having limited familiarity with London, but the street was lined with warehouses and no civilians appeared to be around.

"Fire!" Mycroft shouted.

John heard the whoosh of the hurtling rocket a split second before the car burst into billowing flames. Watching it burn, his knees shook with relief and righteous fury.

_That's for Amy Murphy, you-_

His silent litany was interrupted when something dark and man-sized shot out of the blaze, howling and trailing fire like a comet. It leaped skyward and smashed through a third story window in the storage facility. Inside, crashing furniture and the wail of over-stimulated smoke detectors marked its progress.

"He's going to head for the lower levels and gain entry to the sewers," Mycroft declared to his men. "Enter the building and destroy the target on sight."

All eight men ran to the building's street entrance. The door was locked, so they kicked it off its aging hinges and dove inside. John started to follow them, but Mycroft gracefully blocked his way.

"No, Dr. Watson, I'm afraid that you and I have things to discuss while we await the outcome."

In his own way, Mycroft Holmes was just as formidable as James Moriarty. The man's surface polish was flawless, but beneath the courtly veneer John sensed a ruthless nature whose aims were often nobler than the methods he employed to accomplish them. He kept those under his protection safe by being more violent and ruthless than the worst enemy imaginable.

John didn't envy him his conscience.

"What do you want to know?"

Before the elder Holmes could respond, the rear passenger door of an Audi parked down the street swung open, and a pair of long, shapely legs spilled out. It was Mycroft's attractive PA, who had caught John's appreciative eye at the military airfield. She approached on four-inch heels, nails tapping on her Blackberry keys.

"Sir," she said, "the Prime Minister is asking about the trade agreement negotiations."

"Please tell him that I'll be in his office at nine tomorrow morning with an update."

"Yes, sir."

John was impressed. The Prime Minister?

When the woman returned to the car, studying her phone like it contained the cure for cancer, Mycroft turned back to John. "Now where were we? Ah, yes. I'm interested in knowing how you ended up in a closed car with a vampire Elder whose ultimate intention was to bleed you dry. I'm not used to anyone except my brother getting themselves into such foolish situations."

Those words and their condescending delivery annoyed John. "I thought it was your car. Sherlock texted me and said you were en route."

Mycroft shook his head. "Do you really think I could have arrived at the hospital from Baker Street so quickly? There are some miracles even I can't accomplish."

"Such as talking to me as if I'm not a complete fool?" John snapped. "I don't know this fucking city. And I _was_ expecting you."

"Well, now you know for next time." Mycroft stopped when a loud crash shattered the air. Both men looked in the direction of the storage building, but when the sound didn't recur, he continued. "So tell me what happened last night on your hunt as well as what you discovered in your interviews."

"Weren't you visiting Sherlock earlier?"

"Yes."

"Well, didn't he tell you about last night?"

"Yes, but merely his version if it. I'd like to know the whole truth." Mycroft's steely gaze pierced John like specimen needles. "You're an intelligent man, Dr. Watson. And even if you weren't, I believe you know better than to lie to me."

John was really irritated now. When he didn't respond immediately, Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"The answer must be a complex one. You appear to be deep in thought."

"Actually," John said, "I was wondering what would have happened if Moriarty had succeeded in biting you… whether you'd be a bigger arse alive or undead."

Mycroft's brows lifted and he approached John, visually sweeping him from head to toe. "You don't seem to be very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening," the doctor lied.

The elder Holmes took another step. They were now mere inches apart: John could see the intricate weave of the threads on the taller man's coat. But he did not flinch or avert his stare.

"You're lying to me now," Mycroft said. But he actually looked pleased. "You _are_ afraid. Very much so. But you hide it well: anyone with lesser powers of observation would have missed the signs entirely."

John exhaled slowly. "Are you done measuring my worth?"

"For now."

Two of Mycroft's men emerged from the building and jogged toward them. "Sir," one of them reported, "the target evaded us and made it into the sewers."

Mycroft frowned. "We shall be hearing from him again then. He's severely injured at present, but he'll find minions to get him the blood he requires to rejuvenate." He sighed. "Extract the rest of the team and regroup at the Ealing location. Jerome and Hartley are to remain here to stand down the police investigation which will assuredly arise. Dr. Watson and I shall proceed to Baker Street."

"Yes, Sir."

"Come, John." The elder Holmes spun in one well-polished heel and sauntered toward the Audi. After a moment's hesitation, John followed. Mycroft had just called him by his first name. Had he passed some kind of test?

The two men slid into the back seat. Once the car began its journey to Baker Street, Mycroft retrieved an umbrella from the floor and laid it across his knees.

"Sherlock tells me that you're moving into 221b."

"For now."

"Mm." Mycroft eyed him thoughtfully. "I understand that your dedication to vampire hunting has left you in a precarious financial state."

John flinched at the reminder. His Visa account was one missed payment away from being awarded to a collection agency, and half the time his debit card failed. His hunting activities had left him with the time and energy for part-time work only, and his pathetic army pension did little to make up the deficit in his living expenses.

"What's it to you?" he asked testily.

"I merely wish to inform you that as of an hour ago, your Visa account has been restored to good standing and you've even been approved for a substantial credit increase."

John turned around on the seat, startled. "What?"

"I've also deposited a small sum into your current account. Your overdraft has been covered and you now have a surplus for the first time in months."

"What do you want?"

"For this? Nothing. Consider it a bonus for the work you've done for our cause in Glasgow." Mycroft sat back and crossed his legs, balancing the umbrella on his lap. "But if you're interested in doing some private work for me, I'll make it worth your while financially."

"What kind of private work?"

"Nothing strenuous, I assure you." The older man's tone was so mild that John was instantly wary. "I only require a little information from you from time to time." He paused. "About Sherlock."

"You want me to spy on your brother?"

"Spying is such a hostile word, John, and in this instance my intentions are honourable. Sherlock and I are not as close as siblings should be: too much difficult history between us. He'd refuse my help if he was starving to death and I had the only key to a blood bank."

John knew that the Holmes brothers did not get along. Sherlock's acerbic comments had made that clear, and Mycroft's request now proved that the lack of trust was a two-way street.

It reminded him of his own family. Too much.

"No," he said.

Mycroft didn't seem to be surprised at the answer, but said, "I haven't told you how much I'm willing to pay."

"Don't bother." John crossed his arms and looked out the window. "I'm not interested."

"You've known Sherlock for barely two days, and you're already very loyal. Interesting. Well, my offer stands should you ever reconsider." Mycroft smiled tightly. "Now, do tell me how you ended up sharing a ride with Mr. Moriarty." He raised his left forearm and eyed the torn coat sleeve. "Before you identified him, I was wondering what vampire was cognizant enough to ride around London in a Bentley during daylight hours, kidnapping people. I anticipated the discovery of a new species."

John told him about the hunt in Wapping and Amy's murder, the latter of which was still painful to recall. When he finished talking about the interview with Moran and his abduction by Moriarty, Mycroft seemed genuinely grateful.

"Thank you for that report. I agree with Sherlock for once: someone at University College Hospital was Moriarty's day walker, and informed him that the girl was talking about vampires. He ordered that individual to murder her." He drummed his long, graceful fingers on his knee. "It's safe to assume that the day walker also drove the car that picked you up and was consumed in the blaze that is now keeping the London Fire Brigade occupied."

John, his earlier annoyance subsiding, commented, "Sherlock said that Moriarty only keeps one day walker at a time."

"That's my understanding too. Today's 'accident' will ensure that his daylight activities will be severely curtailed for a while: he needs to rejuvenate and cultivate another soul who's terrified of death. But we've not heard the last of him. Moriarty is determined to destroy Sherlock."

"What I'm wondering about," John said, "was how he knew my name and that I was connected to Sherlock."

"I was wondering about that myself." Mycroft looked troubled. "Until now, there's been no evidence that Moriarty knows about Sherlock working with vampire hunters. We have always believed that he's only threatened by what my brother is: an anomaly who cannot be controlled by an Elder and may create others like him. That is likely still the case, but the fact that he referred to Sherlock as a midge- which represents an incessant nuisance- is intriguing. Perhaps he does know. "

"Is it possible that he's monitoring Sherlock's communications? Texts and e-mails?"

"Perhaps. I'll arrange new mobile and internet accounts for both of you." Mycroft took out his phone, opened a memo application, and made notes.

They were now pulling up to the curb at 221b.

"John, I respect the fact that you don't wish to 'spy' on Sherlock, as you put it," Mycroft said as he put the phone away and uncrossed his legs. "But would it be too much to ask that you inform me if he acts in any way you perceive to be detrimental to his best interests? I worry about him. Constantly."

Before John could answer, the building's front door flew open and Molly rushed out.

Crying hysterically.


	11. Chapter 11

Molly wiped her face with both hands before hurrying into Speedy's Café next door.

Mycroft shook his head. "Not again."

"You know why she's crying?" John asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. She wants what she can never have."

When the car stopped, Mycroft told the driver, "I shan't be long. While you're waiting, please get a status report from the personnel we left on site."

"Yes, sir," the man responded.

"Thank you. Come, John. Let's go convince Sherlock that I've not turned you into a political prisoner."

The two men exited the vehicle. As they approached the door to 221b, Mycroft took a key out of his pocket. "Mrs. Hudson isn't in," he explained. "If she had been, she would never have let Dr. Hooper leave in such a state of distress."

John hesitated. "You go on up to the flat and fill Sherlock in. I'll join you both after I talk to Molly."

"Very well. Do try to talk some sense into her, please. She's a valuable asset and we can't afford to lose her because of my brother."

So Sherlock was responsible then. John wasn't surprised.

He found her sitting at a small table in the café's far left corner, holding her face in her hands and sobbing quietly while a young waitress touched her shoulder in commiseration.

"Molly?"

She looked up, startled. The waitress eyed him reproachfully until Molly cleared her throat and said, "No, this isn't him. John's a friend. Thank you. I'll be fine."

The other woman patted her arm. "All right then. Would you like to see a menu, sir?"

"Just coffee for me, thanks."

When the waitress left, John sat down at the tiny table. "Molly, did Sherlock upset you?"

"I don't know why I let him do this to me," she mourned. A faint fuchsia smudge extended past the corner of her mouth, as if she'd wiped her lipstick off in a hurry. "No matter how nice I am to him, he's always so rude. I've told myself over and over that he's not boyfriend material, especially after the change. But you can't always help the way you feel."

"I know," John replied, remembering his own reaction to Sherlock Holmes. The "married to my work" speech had compelled him to try and shove those raw and confusing feelings out of his mind. But there were still moments when the vampire's allure hit him right in the gut, leaving him more conflicted than ever. "Our hearts don't always know what's best for us, do they?"

Her bloodshot eyes widened. "That's so true. You do understand."

"I think everyone has fancied someone who's wrong for them."

The waitress brought John's coffee and a mug of tea for Molly. Before leaving to greet a new customer, the girl assured her, "You'll find someone who deserves you one day."

When Molly bit back a sob, John touched her wrist. "Tell me what happened."

"I brought some O negative blood from the hospital because we used so much of it for Sherlock's bath last night." She grabbed a handful of napkins from the table dispenser and dabbed at her eyes. "He didn't even thank me when I put the blood in the fridge. He just asked me why I put on lipstick- said it made my mouth look too big."

"Charming," John grunted, shaking his head. "Look, Molly, I've only known Sherlock for two days, but that's long enough for me to see that even before he became a vampire, he wasn't like you or me or many other people, for that matter. He doesn't seem to need or want a significant other."

Molly blew her nose and took a shaky sip of her tea. "I met Sherlock four years ago. He used to come to Barts to run experiments in the lab. I still don't know who authorised it- probably his brother. But he took over completely. He even got cross whenever someone moved or replaced equipment without telling him first. For awhile we couldn't keep cleaning staff, because he'd be so horrible to them."

John could easily imagine it: Sherlock Holmes, tall and arrogant and beautiful, sweeping into a hospital laboratory like he was a feudal lord and the employees were his vassals. Most people, like Sally Donovan and the hospital cleaning staff, loathed him. But others, such as John and Molly, were drawn toward him like moths to a flame, scorched by his often repellent personality but unable to resist.

"When he first spoke to me, he asked me to find him a particular type of cadaver- a male, mid-forties." Molly's gaze turned vacant and dreamy. "He wanted to use a riding crop on the body to measure bruise patterns. I could have lost my job, but when I looked into those eyes and heard that voice, there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for him. And over the years that never changed, even after he became a vampire. It sounds silly, but it's the truth."

John wondered if that was the primary reason why Molly Hooper became a vampire hunter. Even if he hadn't been indifferent to normal human sentiments such as romantic affection, Sherlock was forever lost to her when vampires killed him. He may not have turned into a murderous monster like his creators, but the transformation had eliminated any faint chance of Molly's hopes being realized.

A text alert broke the brief silence. Molly reached into the pocket of her cardigan, took out her phone, and read the message. Whatever it was made tears well in her eyes again. "I'd better go. He's cross that I'm monopolizing you down here." She began to rise, but John grabbed her wrist gently.

"Too bad. He can wait. I'm not going until I know you're alright."

John wanted to tell her about his close call with Moriarty, but she seemed determined to go. She put her phone away, gave her face a final wipe, and stood up.

"I will be. I have to be going back to Barts anyway. The assistants will wonder where I've gotten to. Thank you for listening, John. I know that Sherlock will never change, so I suppose I have to. Someday."

They parted ways outside the café: Molly hurried to the Tube station while John let himself into 221b with the spare key Sherlock had given him. He ascended the stairs, footsteps heavy with indignation. When he entered the sitting room, Sherlock was in his chair, tuning a violin. The vampire set it aside and said coolly, "You took your time. How was tea with Molly?"

Mycroft sat in the chair opposite, toying with the handle of his umbrella. After glancing at John for a millisecond, he commented, "You're slipping, brother. It's blatantly obvious that John had coffee, not tea."

Sherlock looked John up and down. "Yes, of course," he muttered.

"You really hurt her, Sherlock." John approached until he was standing over the seated vampire. "She's upset."

"Molly has to give up this silly infatuation. It's pointless and diminishes her value to the team. I was merely being kind."

"No, there was nothing kind about the way you treated her."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "You're angry with me."

"I was. Now I just feel sorry for you."

Mycroft chuckled, which seemed to anger his brother. The vampire's lips tightened and he spoke in clipped tones.

"I cannot afford to have someone on the team solely because they are obsessed with me, John. You, Lestrade, and Sally are motivated by desire for vengeance, which will ensure that you see this battle to its completion or die trying. Molly? She's really doing this for me."

John glared. "You should be flattered that someone besides your brother cares enough to risk their life for you."

"Well, I'm not. It concerns me deeply. Molly has desires I do not share and can never fulfil. We can only hope that it won't affect her loyalty one day."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "As enlivening as I find this conversation, we'd best move on to more pressing matters than my brother's insensitivity. John, I told Sherlock about Moriarty's attempt to abduct you."

Sherlock rose swiftly from his chair. The sulky defiance was gone, replaced by excitement.

"So Moriarty is monitoring me. Electronically, from the sounds of it."

"That appears to be a logical assumption," Mycroft agreed. "Both you and John shall have new mobile accounts later this afternoon. I'll also have extra security measures applied to your internet connection."

Sherlock ignored him. "And now he's made a move and been gravely injured, leaving him vulnerable. Ah, it's Christmas!" He rubbed his long white hands together in glee.

John was still annoyed, but he couldn't help sharing Sherlock's enthusiasm. "We've got to get him before he rejuvenates. We'll never have another chance like this again."

"I agree. We have a narrow window of opportunity and must take full advantage," Mycroft said. After checking his pocket watch, he rose and buttoned up his coat. "I must be going now. Sherlock, I presume that as soon as darkness falls, you're going to search for Moriarty?"

"Obviously."

The elder Holmes actually looked concerned. "I understand how enthusiastic you must be feeling. But you must be cautious."

Sherlock made a face. "I always am."

"No. You are not. Unfortunately I do not have time to debate the issue: I'm due at the American embassy in twenty minutes."

"You wore out your welcome the moment you arrived, Mycroft," Sherlock growled.

"I'm not sure that's possible, brother. When am I ever welcome?" Mycroft turned to John. "Would you be so kind as to escort me down to my car?"

John rose. "All right."

He followed Mycroft out of the flat. Both men were silent until they were standing on the pavement outside, surrounded by the sunlight that could prove so lethal to the vampire staring at them from the window above.

"John," Mycroft said, "I think you will be the best thing that has happened to Sherlock in a long time."

_That_ was unexpected. John's brow furrowed in confusion.

"My brother has a brilliant mind, as I'm sure you've noticed. But his sense of caution and restraint are negligible. I worry about him constantly." Mycroft looked down. "I lost him once already. I could not go through it again. I'm relying on you to keep him out of danger. You do not lack for courage. What you must cultivate is a higher sense of caution than you ever imagined necessary. We're hunting an Elder. The traps are less obvious- look at how naturally you stumbled into Moriarty's- and the consequences of failure are graver."

"I know."

"You need to do more than know. You need to _remember_."

The advice given, Mycroft Holmes stepped into his car and was soon gone.

* * *

When John went back upstairs, Sherlock was in his chair once again, swinging his foot and dancing his fingertips on the wooden arms.

"As soon as it's dark," he declared, "you and I shall return to the building where Moriarty disappeared and track him. The scent should be fresh until tomorrow at least." He looked eagerly at John, who had settled into the chair opposite. "In the meantime, I want you to tell me _everything_ you remember. What he looked and sounded like, what he said. But first I need to know this: did he actually touch you at any time? Mycroft said he forced some poor fool to drag you into the car."

"Yeah." John shuddered slightly at the memory. "He did. Touch me, I mean."

Sherlock stood. "Where, specifically?"

"The back of my neck and the right wrist."

John wasn't prepared for what happened next.

Sherlock pounced onto John's chair and straddled him, thighs bracketing the doctor's hips. "Be still," he ordered before grasping John's right wrist, bringing it to his nose, and inhaling deeply. "I want _his_ scent."

John bit his lip as Sherlock's arse settled onto his lap. "O-okay. But make it quick."

Sherlock sniffed again before extending his tongue and running it along the soft underside of John's wrist. "Tasting will accelerate absorption," he murmured. "You have no broken skin here, so there's no risk of my infecting you."

John, to his mortification, was growing hard. He closed his eyes and tried to evoke a mental cold shower, but Sherlock's proximity made it impossible. The vampire's sultry cologne, the cool touch of his tongue, and oh God, the feel of that firm and agile body pressing against John's: his earlier resolutions were forgotten. John Watson was slowly getting drunk on desire.

Then Sherlock's lips touched his neck, and his world exploded.


	12. Chapter 12

"Oh, God." It was both a whisper and a plea.

For more.

The soft weight of Sherlock's mouth against his neck, in that vulnerable spot where his carotid artery thrummed with life, should have made John go mad with terror. One bite and his earthly existence would disappear in a flood of red. But he wasn't afraid: he knew he was safe. All he felt as Sherlock pressed him against the chair's sturdy back was unbridled desire.

His free hand slid from the chair arm to Sherlock's arse and gripped tight. "What are we doing?" he whispered against the vampire's shoulder. Not 'you'. _We._

"I don't know." Sherlock's voice was low and rough as their fingers laced. "I can't bite you. I _won't_. But you smell so…." He groaned deep in his throat and caressed John's skin with his tongue. "Delicious."

"Sherlock," John groaned. He shifted his head and buried his nose in those wild black curls. Inhaling deeply, he pulled Sherlock forward until their hips were locked together like puzzle pieces predestined to unite.

"John," Sherlock said, a trace of wonder softening his voice, "what _is _this?"

John gave the only answer that seemed to fit. "Sheer madness."

He thrust frantically against Sherlock, shuddering as the coil in his belly grew hotter and tighter and his breathing dissolved into nonstop gasping. Sherlock's lips and tongue on his stuttering pulse point turned him on more than anything his past lovers had done. Theoretically it was a caress of death, but it felt so perfect and right that he didn't protest.

"Jesus Christ!"

The shout froze John in mid-grope. Heart hammering, he pulled his face out of Sherlock's hair and stared at the doorway.

_Fuck- never even thought about the fucking door!_

Lestrade and Sally Donovan stood there, faces slack with shock. Sherlock hissed and sprang off of John, who hurried to cover the swell in his groin with a cushion.

"How did you both get in?" the vampire demanded. "I didn't hear anyone at the door."

Sally recovered first. "Probably because you were getting ready to stuff your face on John's blood, Freak!" she yelled. Flashing a furious glance at Lestrade, she declared, "I knew it! He's no different than the others. Just sneakier is all. Good guy my arse."

"Sally-" Lestrade began.

She wasn't listening. Reaching into her open coat, she pulled a gun out of its shoulder holster and took aim.

"John," she said without taking her eyes off of Sherlock, "did he bite you?"

"No! I'm all right. Really." John jumped up, grateful that his erection had disappeared, and raised both hands. "I- _we_- can explain."

"Don't be tedious, Sally," Sherlock chided. "You know perfectly well I would never bite-"

The roar of her gun drowned the rest of his denial. He barked in pain and grabbed his left shoulder while John and Lestrade both lunged at his attacker.

"Freak!" she yelled as she struggled with them. "Why don't you two see it as clearly as I do? He's a bloody killer. Probably puts out half the bodies we find."

When Lestrade snatched the weapon from her hand, John turned to Sherlock, who still grasped his bleeding shoulder.

"Good God, are you all right?"

"I will be." The vampire glared at the fuming policewoman. "I ought to throw you out the window."

"That's enough!" Lestrade said sharply before confronting Sally. "Donovan- do that again and you are off this team. Is that clear?"

"He was going to bite John!" she exclaimed. "You saw it too."

"I know what I saw. I'm also sure there's an explanation."

She opened her mouth to protest, but a dark look from her boss silenced her.

Sherlock peeled the bloody fabric of his jacket and shirt away from his shoulder and examined the wound. "I think the bullet's buried in the muscle," he mused. Turning around, he asked, "Is there an exit wound?"

John looked, praying that he wouldn't fall over. His legs still shook minutely from the intensity of their encounter. "No."

"Definitely still in the muscle then. You'll have to extract it for me later." Sherlock re-covered the injury and prodded the area. "No broken bones either. I expected better from you, Sally. But you do odd things when you're excited, don't you? Such as Anderson."

Lestrade scowled. "When I said that's enough, I meant you too."

Satisfied that Sherlock would be all right, John faced Sally. "You had no right to do that. He wasn't going to hurt me."

"Then what _was_ he going to do?" she retorted. "His mouth was on your neck."

"He was absorbing Moriarty's scent."

Moriarty's name threw a sudden and welcome calm over the hysteria.

"Mycroft texted and told us what happened to you. That's why we're here." Lestrade steered Sally onto the sofa and sat beside her. John suspected that the DI knew exactly what had been going on earlier: now that the uproar had settled, he seemed embarrassed and amused, like he'd caught two of his officers having an illicit snog while on duty. As he pocketed her still-smoking gun, he added, "Tell us everything."

John returned to his chair, which was still warm from their passionate fumbling, and sat down. Trying not to sound as dazed as he still felt, he recounted the morning's events. While he talked, Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace. The vampire was unusually silent: John could practically see his singular brain soaking in the details like a sponge and analysing them at lightspeed.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade said when the doctor finished. "So Moriarty looked like a regular bloke. Personally, I find that worse than if he were a monster like the others. Under certain conditions you'd never know what he was until it was too late."

"I agree." Sally stared pointedly at Sherlock, who ignored her and settled in his chair.

"Enough of Moriarty's scent remained on John for me to be able to track him if I encounter it again," the vampire said. "I've decided to go back to the site where he eluded Mycroft and determine where he's hiding."

"When?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock's eager smirk betrayed his anticipation. "Tonight. As soon as it's dark."

"What time do you want us to meet here then?"

"I don't. John and I shall go alone."

The DI frowned. "You can't. It's too dangerous."

"Lestrade, what would be dangerous is tracking a vampire Elder at night with a whole brace of humans nipping at my heels." Sherlock's lip curled. "We'll be travelling through the sewers, so you'd all need torches. If vampires attack- and they will, with your travelling light show letting them know exactly where you are- you won't be able to run for daylight."

"We won't need torches. Mycroft could get us night vision equipment."

"Which would weigh you down considerably and impede your fighting ability. The answer is no, Lestrade."

"So why bring John then?" Sally asked. "In case you get hungry?"

"In case I become too enthusiastic." Sherlock gazed at John. "Once I pick up Moriarty's trail, it will be tempting to engage him immediately. John is very persuasive. He'll remind me not to be rash."

John suspected that the 'voice of reason' explanation was only part of it. Sherlock was regarding him with intrigue and a softness that resembled affection. If the vampire was indeed married to his work, as he'd asserted the night before, then what was this? The beginnings of an affair?

"I don't like it," Lestrade insisted. "We should go in with one of Mycroft's squads and just finish off Moriarty and the vampires guarding him."

Sherlock made a noise that sounded like a laugh and a sneer combined.

"What?" Lestrade demanded, irritated.

"You're not using your brain, and it's highly annoying. That's what." The vampire's eyes rolled. "Moriarty won't have just one or two minders. He'll be surrounded by a small army while he rejuvenates. You'd need fifty men to get anywhere near him, and a group that large will draw attention. The moment a fight begins, Moriarty's personal guards will spirit him away and you will have lost half your team for nothing."

"He has a point," John admitted. "Moriarty is physically vulnerable right now. We can't botch this- we may never get another chance like it."

Although clearly uncomfortable with the idea of Sherlock and John undertaking the mission alone, Lestrade didn't protest further, signalling his reluctant agreement. "So what's the plan then?"

"Once I pick up Moriarty's scent, John and I will follow it to his current location, which is likely a sewer tunnel. He'll stay underground for now: I can't see him risking a trip to the surface in his condition," Sherlock said. "He'll be there at least two days, given the severity of his injuries. After we're certain that we've pinpointed him, we shall leave."

"And then?" Sally asked.

"Then we'll go back. Tomorrow. With a bomb."

Lestrade turned to John. "Are you all right with this?"

"Yes." John's blood stirred with excitement. "It's brilliant, actually. Planting a timer bomb will destroy every vampire in the nest without endangering any people. We'll just have to ensure that its range of destruction doesn't extend to the surface."

"Mycroft will have access to something suitable," Sherlock said.

A few minutes of silence passed while everyone in the room digested the plan. Outside, traffic rolled along Baker Street and idle chatter from customers at Speedy's outdoor tables drifted in through the blanketed windows. John remembered with a jolt that most people knew vampires only as mythical creatures who existed in books, movie scripts, and nightmares.

"I hate to say this," Sally finally said, "but the Freak's idea is a good one."

"Of course it is. We'll leave as soon as it's dark." Sherlock nodded at John. "I'd advise you to get some rest this afternoon. It will probably be a very long night."

'Long' was an understatement. Tonight John would be invading a vampire nest while the creatures were awake and hungry instead of sated and slumbering. Unless he wore night vision apparatus, he'd be following Sherlock blindly into hell.

He should have been numb with dread. But the reality was that he couldn't wait.


	13. Chapter 13

"John! Wake up! It's time."

As he groggily opened his eyes in response to Sherlock's voice, John's first thought was that he couldn't remember falling asleep in the first place.

After Lestrade and Donovan left, he'd extracted the bullet from Sherlock's shoulder using instruments from the vampire's personal collection. Sherlock did not bring up the incident on the chair and John felt too awkward to take the initiative. But he knew that they couldn't politely avoid a discussion forever. The attraction between them was only going to grow stronger and more demanding, like a secret lover refusing to be ignored.

After the wound was sponged with a healing application of blood and covered with a bandage, Sherlock did something that struck the doctor as rather unusual: he made coffee.

"It's my special blend," he'd purred. John took a sip: he preferred less milk but, determined to demonstrate how polite people behaved, he drank it down.

And woke up hours later on the sofa.

John sat up carefully, gripping the back of the sofa for balance until his head cleared. Sherlock hovered over him, looking sleek and imposing in black trousers and a matching silk shirt.

"I let you sleep an extra hour, so you'd be more alert when I finally roused you. We can leave as soon as you get up: I already dressed you in clothes appropriate for our excursion."

"You _what?_" John looked down. To his shock, he was wearing dark jeans and a black jumper, neither of which were his. "What the hell?"

"I went through your bags, but nothing you own was dark enough," Sherlock explained. "I texted Lestrade and asked him to visit the men's shops on the way home and get you some suitable clothes."

"One moment." John raised a hand. Indignation, embarrassment, and anger were waging a war for dominance, with the latter closest to victory. "You gave me drugged coffee- don't even think about denying it- and then you went through my belongings and took off my clothes? People go to prison for that, Sherlock!"

The vampire seemed irritated. "You needed to be well-rested for tonight, and after today's events, your ability to relax enough to sleep was doubtful. As for your clothes, I had to make sure that everything fit while Lestrade was still here, in case he needed to return something. Fortunately he listened to my instructions and everything was sized correctly."

"You undressed me in front of _Lestrade_?"

"I don't think you're his type, John," Sherlock replied drily.

John buried his face in his hands. "Oh, my God."

"You can bewail your loss of modesty later," the vampire huffed as he pulled on a Belstaff coat and knotted a navy blue scarf around his white throat. "We have to catch a cab and ride down to the location. It's been dark for a couple of hours now, so we shouldn't be intercepted in the sewer tunnels by vampires heading out to feed."

Surprise temporarily derailed John's anger. "You take cabs?"

"After night falls and I'm suitably attired, yes." To illustrate his point, Sherlock donned tinted glasses and tugged on a pair of soft leather gloves that concealed his long nails. "Unless you need the loo, we have to go now."

"I do have to use the loo, in fact," John lied. "Being unconscious for several hours makes the need a little urgent."

"Hurry up then."

John stood. "Are you really that dense? Are you missing my point here?"

The vampire scowled. "If you were doing an intelligent job of making one, I'd certainly have noticed it."

"I'll be more direct then." John was fuming. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so angry. "What you did to me today is unacceptable. It was borderline assault, no matter what rationale you give it."

Sherlock's expression instantly changed from petulant to intrigued. "You don't like being assaulted then?"

"What kind of question is that? No, I bloody well do not!"

Next thing John knew, he was back on the sofa, Sherlock's weight pressing him into the cushions. This wasn't the first time a vampire had tackled him, but his fight or flight instinct didn't even stir. He gasped and stilled, heart pounding madly.

"You're an intriguing man, John Watson. You have me curious." Sherlock's lips lightly brushed John's. "Even while alive, I was never prone to the baser instincts that motivated others, such as loneliness, fear, rage." He paused before adding in a huskier tone, "Desire."

John couldn't speak. Every nerve in his body crackled, charged by the vampire's energy. He felt his anger being shoved into the background like a screaming and irrational child, and replaced with an exhilarating combination of wonder, excitement, and arousal.

"I was positive I'd never feel it." Sherlock's eyes were black and fierce even behind the glasses. "Yet here you are."

"None of this makes any fucking sense," John protested when he finally found his voice. He should have been trying to punch Sherlock in the face instead of lying there, craving more. "I only just met you, you're not even human, and you're an arrogant bastard."

The vampire cocked his head. "You were angry because I, in your words, assaulted you. Technically I'm assaulting you now. Do you want me to stop?"

"No," the doctor whispered.

"Very well. From now on, I shall only assault you when you're awake." Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John's short blonde hair and drew the smaller man's head back until his throat was arched and exposed. "God, the very smell of your blood makes me weak."

John moaned when he felt those soft lips brush against his pulse point once again. "Sherlock…."

"I'll never hurt you, contrary to what Sally keeps insisting." The vampire washed John's hot skin with his tongue. "Despite the intoxicating effect you have on me, I will always be in complete control."

Sherlock may have been in control, but John wasn't. The furnace-hot suction being applied to his neck was driving him crazy. Breathless, he hooked one leg around the vampire's waist and closed any remaining gap between their bodies. "N-not married to your work anymore?"

"When Mycroft told me that Moriarty had abducted you, my alarm was considerable. I don't claim to be an expert on emotional dynamics, but I do know this: despite our short time in each other's orbit, John, I've become quite fond of you." Sherlock's fingers trailed down to John's right nipple and pinched it lightly through the jumper. "My work will understand."

John whimpered as a spark of pain radiated from his nipple, a brushfire of pleasure that inflamed every nerve it touched. He was fully hard now, and desperate to hurry this encounter to its logical conclusion. He hadn't experienced a passion this intense since Sarah died, and he surrendered gladly to feelings he'd been so sure he'd never have again. When Sherlock released his hair, he raised his head off the cushion and sought the vampire's mouth, forgetting the razor-like teeth it contained.

Sherlock recoiled. "No, John. No."

For a brief instant John was confused. Then he realized. "Oh God, how stupid of me."

"My kiss is deadly, John. I could accidently scrape your tongue or mucus membranes with my teeth and infect you." As he spoke, Sherlock sat up straight, sliding John's leg off his waist and straddling the smaller man's trembling thighs. As he reached for John's belt, he added throatily, "Fortunately there are _other_ activities available to us that are even more satisfying."

Despite his previous urgency to leave, he proceeded to show John exactly what these activities were.

* * *

An hour later, they were both sitting in a cab, heading for the burned-out building where Moriarty had disappeared. The vampire looked relaxed and pleased with himself, and John was revelling in a heady blend of awe and post-coital contentment.

His skin still burned where greedy kisses had been applied to his throat, nipples, belly, inner thighs… now that he thought about it, there weren't too many places where Sherlock's lips and tongue hadn't driven him crazy. And where his mouth might prove dangerous, the vampire had used his gloved hands instead, pulling and massaging and slicking until John had one of the most intense climaxes of his life.

When he'd tried to reciprocate, Sherlock gently rebuffed him, insisting that they had to leave. "We'll continue this when we return," he'd promised, and John intended to hold him to it.

John's mobile emitted a text alert. The message was from Mike Stamford.

_Cleaned out a smaller nest in Trongate this afternoon. Thank Sherlock for the tip. MS_

He fumbled briefly with the device: it was the latest iPhone, courtesy of Mycroft, who'd set up new mobile accounts for John and Sherlock and had his assistant deliver replacement phones that afternoon. Sherlock transferred their address books and important data to the new devices, but John still had to get used to the unfamiliar interface.

_Good to hear you're keeping busy. JW_

_How's London? You going to be there for a while? MS_

Glancing at the proud figure beside him, John replied, _It certainly appears that way._

Sherlock ordered the cabbie to drop them off two streets away from their destination. The area, which was primarily industrial, appeared to be deserted: no lit windows or parked cars hinted that any night shifts were in progress.

John cradled the weapon-packed duffle bag in his arms and waited while Sherlock removed his glasses and surveyed the shadows. "All clear," the vampire finally reported. "But stay behind me, and if I stop, you do the same. Instantly."

"Right." John reached into his coat pocket and wrapped his fingers around his army automatic. He wished for something bigger and deadlier but to avoid trouble with any passing police patrols, they'd decided to wait until they were off the street before arming themselves.

The fire from the explosion had been put out hours ago, but an acrid odour still blanketed the air, nearly making John choke. He rubbed his eyes to ease their mild burning and followed Sherlock until they reached the site of the morning's drama.

Moriarty's burned-out Bentley and the pulverized government car were both gone, but glass shards, metal fragments, and spilled petrol still coated the pavement. Sherlock sniffed the air, head darting right and left.

"We appear to still be alone," he said. "But vampires have been here recently."

"How recently?"

"In the last hour. Which means that this building is now an access point for a nest." He sniffed again. "I can discern at least eleven different scent trails, so this is a larger one. Big enough to protect someone important."

"We'll need to be armed before we go any further," John said grimly. "Let's get inside."

They jumped over the deserted police barricade and approached the building. John headed for its street entrance, intending to pick the newly installed lock, but Sherlock stopped him.

"Don't bother. We'll go in the same way Moriarty did." The vampire pointed at the third story window.

"Maybe you can jump that high, but I haven't got wings."

"You don't need them." Sherlock turned his back to John and bent over, bracing his hands against his knees. "Hop on."

After tightening his hold on the weapons bag, John complied. He wrapped his arms and legs around Sherlock's lean body and held tight. The next instant they were both airborne: the night air whistled in John's ears and blew through his hair as they soared up and through the window. Sherlock landed with a silent grace that John found both impressive and terrifying: it reminded him how easily a vampire could take a human unawares. A single noiseless drop from a roof or window and it was all over.

The third story was entirely burned out: only the concrete infrastructure had prevented it from collapsing entirely. Gasping at the lingering smoke traces, John slid off Sherlock's back and took his torch off its belt clip. He opened the duffle bag, shone the light on its contents, and located a bottle of water and extra shirt that he'd packed as a precaution. After wetting the shirt and tying it loosely over his nose and mouth, he bent down to choose a firearm.

And froze.

Nestled among the ultraviolet and automatic weaponry was an oblong silver box, measuring roughly nine inches long by four wide. Its interface consisted of an LED screen and numeric keypad.

"Sherlock, what's that?"

Sherlock didn't ask what he meant. "The bomb, of course. I had Mycroft send it round with the new phones."

"We're planting it _tonight_? I thought-"

"Yes, well, sorry for keeping you in the dark along with everyone else, but it was necessary. It has to be done tonight. By tomorrow Moriarty will have rejuvenated enough to be able to move to less odious accommodations."

John shook his head. "I still don't see why you had to lie. Why not tell them –and _me _- that we'd be doing it tonight?"

"Because Mycroft would never have been able to keep away. He'd put me until direct surveillance and botch the entire operation." Sherlock smirked. "I'm sure he's assembling a team as we speak and giving them strict instructions for tomorrow."

John rolled his eyes. "One day you must tell me what the problem is between you two."

"I'll tell you right now. My brother is a controlling, interfering idiot. End of story. But enough about him. Moriarty is a more immediate concern." Sherlock faced the wall of blackness that had once been a corridor. His voice was calm but the street lamp shone enough light through the window for John to see that the vampire's shoulders shook with anticipation. "We have to go that way. Are you ready?"

John switched off his mobile and took an ultraviolet ray gun out of the bag. "Yes," he said firmly.

He hadn't known Sherlock Holmes for long, but was prepared to follow him anywhere.


	14. Chapter 14

As they navigated the sewers, John was thankful for his military training. It kept him calm and focused while rats ran across his shoes and he inched along a stone ledge covered by slimy matter he preferred not to identify.

He held the ultraviolet weapon ready and grasped Sherlock's arm with his other hand, stopping and starting when the vampire did. He couldn't see a thing in the pitch blackness, so every unexpected noise made his heart stutter. When he cleared his throat once, Sherlock's gloved fingers pressed his lips gently, demanding silence. He complied, but felt a little unsettled.

He couldn't see. He could hear… too much. He couldn't communicate except through touch, which too was too ambiguous on a dangerous mission like this one. John wasn't used to feeling so passive and exposed. It brought back memories of Afghanistan that he was trying to forget.

Sherlock suddenly stopped. John followed his lead, thankful that his thick coat muffled his galloping heartbeat. He listened, but couldn't hear anything over the soft rush of the fetid water below.

"Someone's coming," the vampire said.

John's finger tightened on his weapon's trigger. "Vampire?" he whispered back, presuming that it was now safe to talk.

Sherlock kept his tone low. "No. Human."

"Human? You mean-"

John stopped when he heard a vague splashing noise that sounded like running footfalls. "What the hell?"

Sherlock sniffed audibly. "It's a man. With a slight wound. He's not being followed, but I smell vampire presence much deeper in the tunnel." He inhaled deeply. "I also smell Moriarty."

Excitement brightened his treacle-deep voice. John grasped his arm more tightly, although he'd be powerless to stop his companion if Sherlock bolted.

"It's fine." Sherlock sounded annoyed. "Tempting as it would be to personally separate Moriarty's head from his body, I have no interest in getting you or me dismembered tonight."

John could hear the running man more clearly now. Whoever it was sounded breathless with terror. "What about that bloke?"

"What _about _him?"

"He's trying to escape. We have to get him out of here."

"No. We _don't_." Sherlock grasped John's lapels and pulled him close. The former army doctor still couldn't see anything but he could smell the vampire's unique scent only inches from his face. "John, we cannot jeopardize this undertaking to save one person. Potentially hundreds of lives are at stake."

Try as he might, John couldn't see it like that. The soldier in him grudgingly understood the concept of necessary casualties, but as a doctor, his primary impulse was to get the escaped victim out of harm's way.

"No," he hissed back, imagining his breath blasting against that incomparable face. "You can carry him out while I wait here for you. Seriously, Sherlock, it wouldn't take you more than five minutes and it will _not_ put the mission at risk."

"You care too much, John."

"No, the problem is that you don't care enough!"

When John felt Sherlock's fingers fall away from his coat, he briefly regretted the outburst, as he knew first hand that Sherlock Holmes was not as cold or indifferent as his haughty, arrogant behaviour suggested. But John wasn't about to allow a human life to be unnecessarily sacrificed, and Sherlock's opposition angered him.

"That's actually not true," the vampire finally said. "I just have priorities. You want to save humanity one by one. I prefer to be more effective. Namely, planting this bomb and saving London from being bled dry in one endless nightmare."

The man was closer.

"Please," John whispered, anger giving way to desperation. "I couldn't save Sarah or Amy. I can't let this bloke be slaughtered too."

Sherlock didn't respond, but John did feel a breeze from sudden movement blow against his face. Then he heard a muffled outcry and a brief but urgent splashing noise.

_What the hell?_

"Sherlock?" he called out, struggling to keep his voice at whisper level.

An instant later, he felt the vampire's presence before him again. But Sherlock wasn't alone. He was restraining something – _someone _– who was struggling and making desperate but muted noises.

"This is for you, John," he said. "So you can sleep at night."

His gravelly voice appeared to send the man in his arms into greater fits of terror. John was nearly kicked in the gut by a thrashing knee. The former army doctor pulled a small torch out of his pocket.

"Can I shine a light?"

"Yes, but be quick about it."

John turned on the torch, took a step back, and shone its beam on the man in Sherlock's arms.

"Oh, my God."

Staring back over the white hand covering his mouth was Dr. Sebastian Moran.

* * *

When John recovered from his shock, he stuttered, "Sebastian? What the hell?"

"You know him?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes. That's Dr. Moran, who treated Amy before she was killed." John leaned toward the man. "Sebastian, we're going to get you out of here. If you can stay quiet, my colleague will take his hand off your mouth."

After a brief hesitation, Moran nodded. Sherlock slowly lowered his hand but kept it pressed against the ex-soldier's collarbone, ready to silence him again if necessary.

"How did you end up down here?" John asked.

Moran took a deep, steadying breath. An ugly gash bled lazily on his left temple.

"I was knocked on the head as I was leaving the hospital tonight. Woke up down here. In hell. " He closed his eyes and his lips trembled. "I know this sounds insane, but remember what I said about that girl- Amy Murphy- thinking vampires were after her?"

"Yeah. I remember."

"I thought she was just hysterical, but she was _right_, John. There are vampires down here. Killing people. One of them tore a girl apart right in front of me and drank her fucking blood!"

When his voice rose in pitch, Sherlock's hand moved back toward his mouth. Moran shook his head frantically.

"No, no, I'm alright, I promise. Just… just… _fuck_." His voice trembled. "Jesus Christ. We have to get out of here."

"We'll make sure you get to safety." John clicked the torch off. "Let him go, Sherlock."

"Not so quickly." Sherlock's tone was hostile. "Perhaps you could explain how you escaped your captors so easily, Dr. Moran."

"Easily?" Sebastian Moran nearly spat. "They tied me up with duct tape. When I heard them leave, I crawled over to a jagged piece of concrete and rubbed the wrist bindings against it until they tore. Every move hurt like hell: I think my left rotator cuff's been torn. Any time I thought I heard a footstep, I nearly pissed myself. There was nothing _easy_ about it from start to finish."

"Yet no one followed you." Sherlock didn't even try to disguise his scepticism. "Even though there are still vampires present in the sewers. Too far away to hear us, might I add, or we'd all be in bloody pieces right now."

John frowned. Sherlock had a point: how _had_ Moran gotten this far without attracting murderous pursuers? Even if their intent had been to save him for later consumption, as they'd done with Amy and her boyfriend, by all rights any vampire remaining in the sewer should have gone after him the moment they heard his splashing footsteps.

"Look, I don't fucking know. And how can you tell whether or not those things are close by?" Moran stiffened in Sherlock's grasp. "John, what's going on? First you interview me this morning about Amy Murphy's death, and now you're down here, of all places. Don't tell me it's a coincidence."

"Listen to me," John said slowly. "Those creatures who took you are indeed vampires. I'm here because their leader- who plans to turn London into one massive slaughterhouse – is in these tunnels, recovering from burn injuries. If he's not dealt with tonight, there will be an endless replay of what you saw done to that girl."

"Who's this, then?" Moran tried to see Sherlock's face, but couldn't turn his head far enough.

John answered before Sherlock could. "His name's Sherlock. He's with me, and he's going to get you out of here so he and I can go finish this."

"You're bloody insane! Two men can't do anything against even one of them."

"Two men probably couldn't," Sherlock agreed. "John, please turn your torch back on."

When John complied, the vampire pushed Sebastian Moran against the damp stone wall and let the ex-RAMC doctor see his face in the torch beam. "But I'm not a man, you see. I used to be, but it's easy to forget when I believe I'm being lied to."

Moran's jaw dropped but no noise came out. John, seeing that his horror and fear were genuine, snapped, "Sherlock, stop it!"

The vampire's black eyes flashed to his companion. "He's hiding something and I-"

Taking advantage of Sherlock's distraction, Moran lashed out, his fist catching the vampire on one magnificent cheekbone. The blow, its effect strengthened by its unexpectedness, actually sent Sherlock tumbling off the ledge into the filthy water.

Moran rounded on John, fists raised. "You're with _them_, aren't you? Why did you really come to see me today? What do you want-"

Sherlock was on him before he could finish. Snarling, the vampire seized Moran's throat and shoved him against the wall with such fury that John actually heard bones crunch. Moran cried out and tried to kick him.

"Fuck you!" the ex-soldier gasped as his breath shortened.

John grabbed his companion's arm. "Don't!"

Sherlock did release Moran, but John's plea had nothing to do with his compliance. He stepped back, letting the burly ex-soldier fall to a gasping heap at his feet, and stared into the blackness ahead.

"John," he said slowly, "we're in serious trouble."

John didn't have time to ask what he meant, because a split second later, all three of them were surrounded.

John pressed his back against the wall and raised his ultraviolet weapon. Using the torch in his other hand as a guide, he aimed at a lanky male vampire that snarled at him from its perch on the opposite wall. Before he could shoot, something big and vicious knocked him onto his back and pinned him to the ledge. His weapon went flying and the torch fell from his grasp, but he didn't need light to know that lethal jaws hovered just above his throat. Blood dripped onto his face, filling his nostrils with the odour of recent death and nearly making him retch.

He could hear Sebastian Moran struggling with an assailant. "Get the fuck off me!" the man yelled. Then there was a brief, agonized yell, followed by silence.

Sherlock, from the sound of things, was proving harder to take down. John couldn't see anything in the dark, but the battle he'd witnessed the other night filled his head with images of what was probably happening. In his mind's eye he saw razor teeth tearing immortal flesh, bloody claws sinking into sinewy muscle and, once the battle was over, a head being torn off.

Sherlock's head, this time.

"No!" he shouted, fumbling blindly for his dropped weapon. Two wiry but strong hands seized his wrists, pinning them to the slimy walkway while a knee pressed warningly against his abdomen. These restraining gestures surprised him temporarily out of his panic.

_Why is it merely holding me down like this? Why hasn't it killed me already?_

Nearby, the riotous sound of vampires fighting dissolved into low growls and wet gasps. John renewed his struggles, knowing it was a futile effort but not giving a damn.

"Sherlock!" he cried.

No one answered him- at least not in English. He heard their attackers speak in that grunting, raspy vampire language. When Sherlock answered in kind, voice thick with exhaustion, John's relief was enormous.

They were still in terrible danger, though. He didn't know about Moran, but he and Sherlock hadn't been murdered on the spot. That could only mean one thing.

Moriarty knew they were here and didn't want them destroyed just yet.

"John?" Sherlock called, sounding deflated.

Ignoring the way his chest hurt while he breathed, John responded, "Y-yeah?"

"We're being taken to Moriarty."

John's assailant, still growling, hauled the doctor to his feet. He wobbled, groaning as pain tore through his abused ribcage.

_We've failed_, he thought miserably. _This was our one chance to stop Moriarty for good and I botched it by being a bloody Good Samaritan._

When he was picked up, slung over a broad shoulder, and carried at a dizzying speed deeper into the bowels of London, John Watson had only one thought: whoever had originally said that the road to hell was paved with good intentions was a bloody genius.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay in updating. I've gotten all your PMs, and apologize for making you wait, but RL was nuts. Many of you also ask if John is going to become a vampire at the end of this story, and the answer is that I haven't decided yet. What do you guys think? Should he become immortal to remove all limits on his relationship with Sherlock, or should he retain his humanity?


	15. Chapter 15

By the time the door finally opened, John was nearly out of his mind with anxiety and dread.

Hours had passed since he'd been unceremoniously dumped into this dark and airless enclosure. After stumbling over empty plastic containers and bruising his elbows against rusty metal shelving, he concluded that he was in a storage room that hadn't seen proper use in ages. There were no dead bodies anywhere, for which he was grateful, but the consolation was miniscule: he had no idea where Sherlock was.

Had Moriarty killed him already? John couldn't see why the Elder would delay such a long-awaited pleasure. By sending humans to destroy vampire nests, Sherlock had wreaked such havoc with Moriarty's master plan that his execution must have been swift and bloody. Same for Sebastian Moran, who had unwittingly brought them all down thanks to his escape attempt.

John punched a concrete wall, welcoming the pain that bloomed up his arm. It interrupted the terrible slideshow flashing through his brain. He saw images of Sherlock being torn apart piece by piece until all that remained of London's guardian vampire was desiccated flesh and splintered bone. "Fuck," he gasped, crouching down and pushing his head between his knees. If only his friend had not opted to keep Mycroft and the others in the figurative dark. They'd never be missed until it was too late. "You fucking silly, arrogant bugger."

The rusted lock rattled, pulling him temporarily out of his misery. Then the door opened, sending sickly orange light streaming into the room. Two large male vampires wearing frayed denim jackets loomed in the doorway. One of them beckoned with a crusted claw and John, seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, followed them out into the filthy hallway. One led the way while the other marched behind John, pushing him whenever his pace slowed.

He could tell that this section of the sewer system had not been accessed in a long time. The crumbling walls and mouldy air guaranteed that nobody human came around anymore. He repeatedly coughed and sneezed, which his escorts seemed to find amusing. They snorted and leered at him.

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped. The vampire behind him slapped the back of his head, making stars explode before his eyes. He nearly fell into a rancid puddle, but braced himself against the wall in time. He wondered if the creature had responded to his actual words or his tone: he'd been meaning to ask Sherlock if full-blooded vampires could still understand human speech even though they didn't speak it.

Now he would never have that chance. Eyes stinging, he nearly swore again, but didn't want his body to experience any more 'tenderizing' before he was killed.

Five minutes and a number of turns later, they herded him into a larger chamber that must have been an equipment storage area at one time. Now it had been repurposed as James Moriarty's rejuvenation quarters.

Moroccan rugs covered the floor and walls, their vibrant colours concealing the natural ugliness. A polished wooden trunk sat in one corner, its lid raised to reveal suits, shirts, trousers, and other expensive items of men's clothing. A mountain of red velvet cushions leaned against the wall opposite the door, supporting a vision that John would never be able to unsee.

Two young men lay naked and bruised on battered gurneys that looked as if they'd been stolen from a hospital skip. They were unconscious but alive, although probably not for much longer. Thick plastic tubing ran from their elbows, clavicles, and groin area –all sites of major blood vessels, John realized with horror and nausea– to identical locations on a figure that reclined on the cushions like a languid cat.

When John's escorts propelled him closer, it sat up straight and leered, flashing teeth that were alarmingly perfect in its ruined face.

"Hello, Johnny-boy."

John stared. "Jesus Christ."

Moriarty chuckled as he stood, careful not to jeopardize his blood transfusion. "No, it's just me, although there must be a resemblance, because I hear that a lot."

Even in the dim room, Moriarty looked nothing like the way John remembered him. All visible skin was blistered and red with healing burns. His eyelashes and brows were gone and his black hair was drastically thinned-out, especially around the face. A length of black fabric hung loosely around his hips, the waistband open wide enough to admit the tubes carrying blood to his nether regions. John shuddered: if the Elder still looked so appalling after hours of intravenous blood applications, he must have been little more than a walking cinder when he escaped Mycroft's team.

"Where's Sherlock?" John demanded. Much as he dreaded having his friend's murder confirmed, he had to know. "What have you done with him?"

"Nothing that you've done with him, I assure you." Moriarty's blistered lips parted in a bloody smile. "You two positively _reek_ of each other, you know."

"I'm surprised you can smell anything in this shithole." John's horrified stare returned to the slowly dying blood donors. "You fucking evil prick."

"I hear that a lot too," the Elder said airily as he sat back down. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Johnny-boy. I haven't killed your precious half-breed. Yet. And since I'm such a sucker for romance, I suppose I'll let you see him now. Thank goodness my tear ducts haven't returned yet, or I'd be embarrassing myself."

Moriarty spoke in the vampire dialect to one of John's escorts. The creature inclined its head in a submissive gesture before leaving.

John was so relieved to know that Sherlock was still in one piece (the vampire equivalent of alive and breathing) that his mouth nearly contorted in a smile. He knew that it was only a temporary reprieve, though.

"What do you plan on doing with us?" he asked. "You could have killed us easily before now."

"Of course I could have." Moriarty grinned again. "But where would the fun be in that? I've waited for so long that-" The Elder paused as four vampires dragged Sherlock into the room. "Ah, here he is now: the Mother Theresa of the underworld."

Sherlock's face was livid with bruises and his stiff gait hinted at additional injuries, but he wasn't in bloody chunks, as John had originally feared. Thick iron manacles with a small length of chain between them secured his wrists and ankles. His biting ability was nullified by an iron bar that had been thrust between his teeth and strapped in place like a BDSM gag.

When he saw John, he brightened and the corners of his mouth turned up. He tried to approach the ex-soldier, but his escorts tightened their grip on his arms. Sherlock snarled around the bar and fruitlessly fought the cuffs.

"Well, now," the Elder proclaimed, rubbing his thin hands together and making the blood in the IV tubes slosh about. "Let's get down to business, shall we? I'm sure you're both dying to know why you're here in my bedroom instead of nourishing the rats outside."

Sherlock's lips curled and he garbled abuse.

"Sherlock. _Sherlock_." Moriarty shook his head as he sat back down. "I can't understand what you're saying but I've got the feeling you're being awfully rude." He said something to the guards, two of whom seized Sherlock's shoulders and forced him to kneel.

"Much better," Moriarty gloated. "If you didn't still have that humanity virus infecting you, you'd have known your place and knelt the moment you came before me. You'd also have eaten Johnny-boy instead of arranging a flatshare with him."

"How did you-" John began before stopping.

"My recently deceased day walker was adept with telecommunications. It was a skill that proved to be very useful two nights ago, when I learned about a lethal altercation between two vampires out in Wapping." Moriarty smiled at Sherlock. "It wasn't difficult to figure out who'd protected a group of humans: the same midge who's been sending them after his own kind and, by proxy, interfering with my plans for the future."

Sherlock glowered.

"I sent my day walker to the battleground the following morning and what did he find? Your undoing, Sherlock, which happened to look like a dropped mobile belonging to one Sally Donovan."

John closed his eyes. _Oh, shit._

Moriarty's grin was nasty. "Miss Donovan's mobile contained some very interesting text messages about a 'freak' named Sherlock, so I knew that my suspicions had been correct. She also sent a few to you, Sherlock, telling you where to go and what delightfully wicked things you could do to yourself en route, so my assistant traced your mobile account and accessed your texts. That's how I knew that Johnny was snooping at the hospital yesterday. Since your account was registered to a phony address, I hoped that your little pet would be good enough to enlighten me as to where I might find you. Boy, did that backfire. Literally." He lifted one braised hand. "I nearly despaired, boys, and then you both came to _me_."

John waited for him to get to the point. He had no illusions that Moriarty would let either of them live.

"Well, that's enough gloating for one night," the Elder sighed, suddenly sounding weary. "I'll need to rejuvenate a while longer before I can savour my triumph for more than twenty minutes at a time. Pain is making me positively modest." He rolled his eerily humanlike eyes. "You'll be glad to know that I've decided to let you spend the rest of your lives together. It won't be a long time, so make it a good one, will you, boys?"

"Fuck you," John hissed.

"Tempting, but I'm still an invalid. I hate to rush you lovebirds, but you'll have to be quick. Before daylight you'll be having company. Namely Gregory Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Molly Hooper, and Mycroft Holmes."

John gasped. Sherlock uttered a muffled shout and tried to lunge to his feet, chains swinging wildly, but the vampire guards held him in place.

"Yes, my late and lamented day walker extracted a wealth of address details from the texts on Miss Donovan's mobile," Moriarty beamed. "By morning the gang will all be here, as the Americans say. That's when you'll all be invited to play a game. Participation will be mandatory and I'm afraid that there will no survivors."

He spoke to the guards, who seized John and pulled Sherlock upright. "Alright, you two, off to the honeymoon suite with you."

John took a deep breath. Then he raised his chin and spat with such force that the saliva hit Moriarty's burned face. The vampire Elder recoiled but did not lose his sadistic smile.

"Impressive aim, Johnny-boy. But save that nasty attitude for the game tomorrow: you'll need it."

As they were dragged out of the room, John glanced at Sherlock's face. The battered vampire was gazing at him with something other than the usual pity, amusement, or lust.

It looked suspiciously like pride.


	16. Chapter 16

John didn't need Sherlock's deductive ability to know that their new holding cell was a former toilet for sewer workers. Dilapidated stalls lined one wall, tarnished mirrors hung on the other, and a raw stink lingered. The toilets and sinks were gone, which heightened the atmosphere of abandonment and decay.

_Honeymoon suite indeed. _

The four vampire guards pushed Sherlock into the wall with such violence that his shoulder dented the concrete. When he grunted in pain and glared, they chortled like rabid primates and one tossed a key onto the floor at John's feet.

Presuming that it unlocked Sherlock's restraints, John bent to pick it up. He cried out when the creature grabbed a fistful of his shirt, hauled him upright, and leered at him. Its tongue ran over blackened teeth before licking a greasy stripe along his throat. Purrs of pleasure rumbled in its throat as it tasted the fear in his sweat.

Sherlock lunged at John's tormentor, roaring around the bar gag. His hands had been cuffed in front, so he managed to rip bloody furrows in his target's abdomen before the other vampires closed in. When two of them seized his arms, he lifted both legs and kicked the third in the chest, sending it flying across the room. The battle abruptly concluded when he was hurled to the floor with enough force to temporarily stun him.

The vampire whom Sherlock had injured lumbered toward him, clutching its abdomen to keep the contents from spilling out. Before it could attack, one of its cohorts raised a hand and grumbled something that made it reluctantly stand down. John guessed that Moriarty wanted his prisoners to remain in one piece for tomorrow's so-called 'game'.

He snatched up the key and rushed to Sherlock's side. When he touched the groaning vampire's shoulder and rolled him gently onto his back, the guards made amused, contempt-laden noises. Then they filed out, locking the door behind them.

Cursing the way his hands shook, John unfastened the bar gag, threw it aside, and unlocked the wrist and ankle cuffs. "Are you all right?" he asked, turning Sherlock's bruised face toward the light.

The vampire jerked away. "No, I'm _not _all right!" he snapped. He tried to spring to his feet, but collapsed onto all fours and grimaced. "Moriarty is out there and we're in here and this is NOT how I envisioned things turning out."

John helped him to his feet. "He said they're going to take the others and bring them here. Then make us play a _game_. Dear God."

Sherlock didn't reply. He limped to the door and pounded on it with one fist, which was still wet with his opponent's blood. "Solid," he muttered before examining the hinges.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, because I'm locked in here with you and have little choice. Do carry on speculating uselessly about our intended fates while I search for an escape route." The vampire moved slowly along the walls, spidery fingers examining all wide or lengthy cracks. His movements were so quick and unsteady that John's irritation dissolved in a wave of understanding.

"Sherlock," he said, "I'm afraid too."

Sherlock rounded on him. "That's to be expected for you. You're _human_. Even though mankind claims dominance over the entire animal kingdom, you still have reasons to fear the dark. When I changed, the one human emotion I thought I'd lost forever was fear. And now it's back. Why? It has no place in a vampire's psyche."

John touched his arm. "It has no place in a _monster's_ psyche. And you're not a monster."

Sherlock shook his head like he was trying to derail destructive thoughts. "I've always been grateful that I retained my humanity. But now it may be my undoing. No, I cannot allow myself to be weakened like this. " He gazed at John. "You spat at him. Moriarty."

"Yeah. I did."

"You were afraid. I could smell it on you. But you still managed to get him right in the face." Sherlock managed a weak smile. "I was proud of you for that."

John grinned too. "I was scared shitless. I still am. But I still did what had to be done."

"Which was?"

"Let that fucker know that whatever he had planned for us, I wasn't going to beg for mercy. And if it came to it, I'd use my last breath to call him a bloodsucking wanker. He doesn't just want us to die, Sherlock. He wants us to die like cowards."

"Something you definitely are not," Sherlock said softly. He wrapped his arms around John and drew the doctor close.

They were still locked in that silent communion when the door opened again five minutes later and Lestrade was brought in.

* * *

The Detective Inspector had clearly put up a fight when they took him. His left eye was bruised and drying blood ringed one nostril. He could walk, but only by leaning on Sebastian Moran, who looked almost as bad.

Sherlock and John rushed toward them while two tank-sized vampires hovered in the doorway, apparently waiting for something.

"He's all right. Just a few minor contusions," Moran said.

"Feels a hell of a lot worse than that." Lestrade touched his forehead, catching his breath noisily when his fingers grazed a dirt-crusted scrape. "What the fuck is going on here? One minute I'm asleep in bed and the next I'm being dragged through Hell. By these fucking things." He looked over his shoulder at the vampires in the doorway, and stiffened. "Christ. It's Moriarty, isn't it?"

"Yes," was all Sherlock said. He stared at Moran with unveiled suspicion. "You're still alive, I see. So what's your part in this?"

"Medical assistance, apparently," the doctor grunted as he slid Lestrade's arm off his shoulders. Satisfied that the policeman could stand unaided, he continued. "After they caught us, they threw me into an old supply room for a few hours. Then I was taken to see the one in charge. The Moriarty you just mentioned."

"I know," Sherlock rasped, his hands balling into fists. "I smell him on you."

Moran tensed but kept talking. "He said that I was only alive because he thought a doctor might be useful. He's bringing more people in tonight and wants them to be in good shape for tomorrow, whatever that means. He even had a decent medical kit for me to work with."

_So that's why Moran was brought here and kept alive_, John thought. _Moriarty knew that Sherlock would come looking for him. He anticipated us._

"Tomorrow?" Lestrade echoed. "What's happening tomorrow?"

"Nothing, if I have anything to say about it," Sherlock snapped. Still regarding Moran through narrowed eyes, he said, "I'm interested in knowing what's in it for you. Moriarty must want something else from you if there's yet to be a feeding frenzy over your corpse. And don't tell me he's sparing you because your medical skills are in demand. John's a doctor, and perfectly capable of keeping us healthy enough to be killed."

After giving the vampire a baleful stare, Moran turned to John. "Do you remember the headache I had when you came to see me about Amy Murphy?"

"Yes."

"I have a tumour on my parietal lobe." The former RAMC doctor kept his tone neutral, but John sensed the anxiety that brewed beneath the surface. "Inoperable. It hasn't yet affected my ability to work, but it's just a matter of time before I have to resign from the hospital. Then go into a fucking hospice."

Now his voice began to shake.

"We're both doctors, John. You know what lies in store for me. I don't want it. I considered suicide, but Moriarty has offered me an alternative."

"You told him about the tumour?" Sherlock demanded.

"No. He already knew about it."

The vampire began to pace. "Of course. When Moriarty learned that John was interviewing hospital staff about the girl's murder, he accessed the personnel records of everyone John talked to. So he could tie up more loose ends." He paused and faced Moran. "Your record would have included the details about your medical condition: information that became valuable when his day walker was burned alive yesterday. He needs a replacement, and you fit the profile." His lip curled. "Dying and desperate. So he ordered you brought to him."

Moran flinched. "Burned alive? Day walker? What are you talking about?"

"Sebastian." John touched the man's shoulder. "I know what Moriarty promised: to make you immortal if you do everything he says. But it's not the salvation that it appears to be. He's offered the same bargain to others, only to murder them when they outlived their usefulness. And even if he does follow through, you won't be an invincible version of your human self. You'll be a monster, like those bastards." He nodded toward the two vampires in the doorway, who gave no indication of understanding the conversation. "You'll only exist for the purpose of killing."

Moran stared at the floor. "I already have. As a soldier."

"Yeah, well, this time you'll be targeting _all_ humans, not just those pointing a gun at you," Lestrade said harshly. "One day you might kill members of your own family. Or your friends. Is that what you want?"

"No. But I don't want _this_ either." Moran tapped his skull. "Besides, he's assured me that I won't be like that. I'll be like him." He eyed Sherlock. "Or you. He said he has the ability to control that."

Sherlock turned abruptly.

"So you want to be like me? To live among humans and not want to slaughter them?"

"Yes."

"I see that you have a certain regard for John, so it must trouble you that he's supposed to die tomorrow. If Moriarty hasn't told you what he plans to do with us, you've surely figured it out on your own by now. And I really don't think you want to be a party to mass murder."

John and Lestrade exchanged puzzled glances. Where was Sherlock going with this?

"Moriarty is not the only one who can offer salvation to someone in your condition." The vampire approached until he and Moran were inches apart. "So here is a different bargain for you. Do as I instruct you, and we all have an excellent chance of getting out of here unharmed. Then, if you still want to escape your fate by becoming a vampire, I'll change you myself."


	17. Chapter 17

John couldn't believe his ears. What the hell was Sherlock doing? Only two days ago the vampire had vowed that he'd never try to change a human, as there was no guarantee that the result wouldn't be disastrous. Was he merely stringing Moran along? Playing with a dying man's desperation in order to cultivate an escape opportunity?

Sherlock kept talking.

"Even if Moriarty does change you, you won't be like me. He would never create a vampire with enough intelligence and residual humanity to potentially turn on him. John told you the truth: you'll exist only to kill, and murder more people than you ever healed as a doctor. And since you don't fit the profile of a casebook psychopath, that outcome _must _trouble you. I'm offering you an alternative."

Moran cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder at the two vampires hovering in the doorway. Sherlock made an impatient gesture.

"They can't understand us but they _will _become curious any minute now, so be quick. What's your answer?"

"I-"

A loud growling cut him off. The guards were standing at attention, misshapen heads cocked and nostrils consuming the air like hunters scenting prey. John and Lestrade stepped back while Moran paled so much that his facial cuts and bruises stood out even more.

"You're fucking sure they didn't understand us?" he hissed.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "Something's happening. I hear a commotion."

John didn't hear anything, so he watched with trepidation as Sherlock tilted his head and inhaled deeply through his nose. When his face fell, John demanded, "What is it?"

"Molly and Sally are now here."

John's heart sank. "Jesus Christ. Are they- are they all right?"

"I can't smell much blood. But Molly might have a cracked rib: her breathing sounds-"

Before he could finish, one of the guards lunged into the room and grabbed Moran's arm. It barked something into the bewildered doctor's face before dragging him out into the hallway. The door slammed shut so violently that John felt the impact in his gut like a physical blow.

"They need him to see to the new arrivals," Sherlock said grimly.

"Bloody hell." Lestrade wiped his forehead. His fingers came away dripping. "What the fuck are we going to do?"

Having no answer to that one and preferring not to dwell on it, John faced Sherlock. "Listen, what was that all-"

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention. The vampire was now pacing, hands pressed together from palm to fingertip.

"Even if Moran doesn't accept my proposal, there's still hope. Moriarty wants the entire team here before he carries out his plan, and he doesn't have Mycroft."

"Yet," Lestrade reminded him.

"My brother is annoying, but he's practically untouchable. Mycroft lives and works behind locked doors and surrounds himself with people who carry anti-vampire weaponry. Any initial attempt to seize him will assuredly fail. He'll try to call us as soon as it's over, and when we don't answer our mobiles, he'll go straight to Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson will tell him that John and I have not returned yet. He'll deduce that we went after Moriarty a day ahead of schedule, and organize a rescue."

"And if Moriarty decides he doesn't want to fanny about and wait for a chink in Mycroft's armour?" Lestrade queried.

"I believe he will. He's been waiting a long time for this insidious little entertainment. Next to me, Mycroft is his most formidable adversary. If both of us aren't present, his victory won't be complete."

"Let's hope you're right." John couldn't hold back any longer. "Sherlock, what the hell was that about? That offer you made to Moran?"

"I thought it was obvious. I was attempting to bargain with him."

"You've never turned anyone before, and you told me that you couldn't predict what your venom might do. So was it just an empty promise to get his cooperation?"

"No. If we make it out of here with his help, I will keep my word."

"What the hell?" John hurried after him and seized his arm, forcing him to halt. "What's the matter with you?"

"I saw a chance and I took it. I'd be foolish not to."

"But you don't have to go through with it afterward," Lestrade protested. "You have no way of controlling what Moran will become."

"No, but I do know that he's dying anyway." Sherlock jerked his arm free. "I prefer to think of this as an experiment. With a willing test subject."

John shook his head. "I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"Don't be hypocritical. You're a doctor: surely you're aware that the medical profession tests new drugs on terminally ill volunteers all the time."

"That's because they're looking for a _cure_, Sherlock! It's not the same thing at all."

"Isn't it? I understand that some participants experience adverse effects and die in these clinical trials. But it's a risk they embrace as an alternative to a slow death in a hospice bed." The vampire resumed his pacing. "I would rather not do it, but I gave my word."

John willed away the image of Sherlock burying his teeth in Moran's neck. "You said that you never wanted to risk making a man into a monster, no matter how ill they were. You felt so strongly about it that you wouldn't go along with Mycroft's plan to test your venom on dying soldiers. So why the change of heart?"

Sherlock stopped and slowly turned around. "I now have an incentive to assume that kind of risk."

"What are you talking about? What incentive?"

"The other night, you asked me if I'd ever thought about the fact that I'll outlive everyone I know. I believe my response was that such thinking is pointless. I stand by that answer, but there was also the simple fact that I had no one whose loss I'd truly _feel_." He said the word 'feel' with faint wonder, like he was surprised to find he had such an ability. "That's changed unexpectedly, and now I'm rather interested in discovering if I can create a… _conscientious_… immortal."

He didn't elaborate on what -or in this case, who- the incentive was. He didn't have to. Even Lestrade clued in immediately: the policeman eyed John with undisguised intrigue.

John's throat tightened. Once again, an initial anger toward Sherlock morphed into gentle affection once the doctor understood the motive behind an apparently callous act.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry if I implied that you were being heartless just now. But this experiment could go seriously wrong."

"I'm well aware. And so is Moran."

"But what if Moran turns into a monster?"

Sherlock's lips tightened. "Then I'll correct my mistake."

Footsteps thudded out in the hallway, cutting the highly charged conversation short. They stopped outside the door, which was unlocked and hurled open. John and Lestrade moved closer to the wall while Sherlock darted in front of them, teeth bared.

Four vampires- all of them female- herded Molly and Sally into the room. Both women were filthy, wore torn pyjamas, and had enough bruises and scrapes to indicate that they hadn't made abduction easy. John noticed with concern that Molly's palm was pressed against her left side, and her breathing was slightly laboured.

When she saw Sherlock, John, and Lestrade, Sally Donovan's eyes bulged. "Fucking hell!" she exclaimed. Rounding on her escorts, she bellowed, "You fucking bitches!"

One of the she-vampires snarled and sent her sprawling; her head would have collided with the concrete wall if John hadn't lunged forward and caught her in time. Undaunted, Sally shrugged him off and rushed at her assailant with both fists flying. This time Lestrade intercepted her. He grabbed her around the middle, immobilising her arms, and dragged her back several feet.

"Stop it, Donovan! Now!"

She stopped struggling but her eyes blazed. "Bloody slags aren't going to bleed me dry without feeling pain for days!"

Molly limped over to Sherlock and John. "What's happening?" She was clearly trying hard to be brave. "Why are we here?"

"Moriarty has made his move," Sherlock said.

"Oh, my God."

John touched her shoulder. "Your rib- it's troubling you?"

She nodded, the pain causing tears to appear. "It's not broken. A bloke –must be a day walker- had a look just now, before we were brought here. Said he was a doctor, and it's just a case of bad bruising."

"He's likely right, but I'll check it in a bit."

Sherlock growled at the vampires, who were watching the reunion with mixed curiosity and contempt. They sneered back before leaving and locking the door behind them.

Lestrade released Sally, who pushed her hair off her face and took several deep breaths. "Why aren't you joining your friends out there, Freak?" she railed at Sherlock. "Are you supposed to be guarding us?"

"Are you blind?" John snapped. "Look at him: he's got more bruises than the rest of us combined."

"Are you telling me he's not part of this?"

Sherlock regarded her with mingled pity and disdain. "Lestrade, _how_ exactly did she merit a promotion to Sergeant? Her deductive ability is somewhere between pathetic and nonexistent."

Sally glowered. "Then how did those bloodsuckers know where to find us? Who told them?"

"Actually, you did," Sherlock said with relish.

"What? You're mad."

"Perhaps, but I'm also correct. Your carelessness is the reason why we're now prisoners awaiting execution."

She turned to Lestrade. "What the hell is he talking about? And why _are_ we here?"

"Perhaps I'd better fill you in," John said. After he finished talking, Sally moaned and buried her face in her hands.

"I wondered what happened to my mobile. Oh, dear God."

Molly was trying to remain calm. "What's this game then? The one Moriarty talked about? Does anyone know?"

"We don't know, and to be honest, we're trying not to think about it," Lestrade said. "We're hoping that Mycroft will get here first."

"Nothing's certain, but we may also have inside help soon. Moriarty's grooming someone to be his new day walker. That doctor bloke who assessed all of us, actually." John told the two women about Moran, omitting Sherlock's offer for obvious reasons. "If we can convince Moran that Moriarty has no intention of making him into anything but dinner, he might help us."

"And why would he run a risk like that?" Sally countered. "It sounds like he's desperate. He doesn't want to die from cancer, so he's going to be deaf to any suggestions that Moriarty isn't some fucking vampire version of a fairy godmother."

Sherlock stopped. "They're coming back," he reported, striding toward the door.

John felt his stomach go into knots. "God, don't tell me Mycroft has been-"

"No. He's not with them." The vampire clenched his fists. "But Moriarty is. And Moran."

The door opened yet again. This time a heavy squad –eight vampires- entered the room. Four of them surrounded Sherlock, two more backed the human prisoners against the wall, and the remaining two took up sentry positions on either side of the door frame. Once everyone was in position, Moriarty glided into the room, followed by Moran, who was carrying a black leather doctor's bag.

Mere hours had passed since John had seen the injured Elder, but the amount of healing that had taken place during that time was unbelievable. His skin had lightened from lobster-red to dark pink, and his hair and brows were fully restored. He moved stiffly, hinting that beneath his black silk pyjamas, muscle regeneration was still a work in progress.

"I rarely miscalculate," he announced, "but I must now admit to a serious oversight. I assumed that once Sherlock was my guest, the Holmes threat would be contained, and all I had to worry about was making a delightful mess afterward." He smiled, but his eyes glittered with barely-contained fury. "Your brother rudely declined my hospitality an hour ago, Sherlock. Three of my children were murdered, and the one who made it back here died before we could heal her."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You actually sound like you care."

"Okay, so I don't." Moriarty groaned dramatically and lifted both hands in a 'you got me' gesture. Moran remained silent, but John noticed that he seemed rattled by that declaration. "Playtime's still on the agenda, boys and girls, but there's going to be a change of venue. I'm informed that Mr. Mycroft Holmes is on his way, and we need to leave this paradise."

"Fuck you," Sally said.

The Elder arched one brow. "You're welcome to stay behind, my dear, but I'm afraid your throat would have to be torn out first."

Moran came out from behind his master. "Please kneel. All of you," he ordered in an unsteady voice.

"Why?" Lestrade demanded.

"Just do it. Please."

John slowly went to his knees. "Do as he says, everyone."

One by one everyone knelt on the grimy floor except for Sherlock, who was seized by three of the vampires surrounding him and held firmly. When the fourth picked up the chains and bar gag from the floor and re-applied them, he did not resist or even react: his eyes were on John, who gave him a smile meant to be reassuring.

Moran went over to Lestrade first. He set the bag down, took out a small case, and opened it. John could see four syringes inside, and guessed that they were sedatives. His theory proved correct when Moran took one out and injected the contents into Lestrade's neck. The policeman's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed onto his side. When Moran went to check his pulse, Moriarty made an impatient noise.

"He's not moving or making irritating noises: that's all you need to be concerned about, Sebby. Carry on: we haven't got all night."

"Yes, Jim." Moran moved on to Sally and Molly, laying each of them carefully onto their sides after they went limp. When he approached John, Sherlock growled around the bar wedged between his teeth and Moriarty said, "Wait."

Moran stopped.

The Elder winked at John before addressing one of his minions. John couldn't understand his words, but Sherlock did, and his response was climactic: he roared and charged at Moriarty, who laughed and made a sweeping gesture. The vampires surrounding Sherlock dragged him to the floor and held him immobile while the one Moriarty had spoken to pulled John to his feet and hustled him over to its master.

"Johnny-boy," the Elder beamed. "I'd like you to fall asleep in my arms, if you don't mind. And if you do, too bad."

Before John could protest, he was whirled around and pressed tightly against Moriarty's chest. He didn't bother to struggle, knowing it was pointless and would only entertain his captors.

"I can see why you fancy this one, Sherlock. He's so delectable: I could hug him until his eyeballs pop out of their sockets." Moriarty's hold tightened; John gasped for air while Sherlock nearly broke free from his assailants. One of them kicked him in the stomach, stunning him. "But I won't. It would be too quick, and not as much fun as what I have planned for him. Would you like to hear what that is?"

His grip relaxed enough to let his victim breathe again. John sucked air into his lungs and fought down the urge to vomit.

"You've been responsible for destroying many of my followers, so I've decided to return the favour. Only not personally. I'm going to make _you_ do it. I can see that you're due to feed soon, so let's see what a few days of deprivation will do to cure this disgusting affinity you have for humans. While we're waiting for your true nature to emerge, my children will be playing with your friends here. Getting them ready for you to break your fast."

John saw it all then. He, Lestrade, Sally, and Molly would be tortured until Sherlock was maddened enough by hunger to rip any red-blooded creature apart. Then they'd all be reunited: for as long as it took for Sherlock to slaughter everyone.

"Then, after you've had time to… ahem… _digest_ what you've done, then you and I will play. I'll be as good as new by then, Sherlock, so don't delude yourself that you'll survive. Okay, everyone, spoiler alert is over. Seb, if you please?"

Moran swallowed heavily before approaching John, something Moriarty noticed.

"Now, Sebby, only weak humans have misgivings. You want me to believe that you're stronger than that, don't you? In order to join us instead of Johnny-boy and his friends, you must convince me that you're a natural fit."

Moran nodded, his expression hardening. "Yes, Jim," he replied, but he refused to meet John's eyes as he pierced the other man's neck with the last syringe and injected the drug.

John stared at Sherlock until everything dissolved into pools of darkness. As he slumped in Moriarty's arms, he wondered feebly whether he was _really_ feeling teeth against his neck.


End file.
